


Pillars of Eternity: HypeStorm

by ThePunkle



Category: Pillars of Eternity
Genre: Action/Adventure, Don't Have to Know Canon, Fantasy, Gen, Humor, Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:26:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 36,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24678406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePunkle/pseuds/ThePunkle
Summary: After saving the Dyrwood, The Watcher of Caed Nua attempts to mind his own business and stay out of trouble. This makes a lot of people angry and is widely considered a bad move.A comedic clusterfuck of fun fantasy action.
Comments: 28
Kudos: 4





	1. Act 1 Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story concerns a cast of almost entirely original characters, besides the Watcher, the games' protagonist, who doesn't have a preset identity anyway.
> 
> My intent is for the final draft to be easy to follow even for someone who has never heard of the Pillars franchise.
> 
> And yeah, there will be a final draft after the first is completed. I estimate the first draft will be done before the end of time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The land has been saved from the plot of Thaos, servant of the goddess Woedica. The Watcher, Bunting, has returned to his castle, Caed Nua, to try to retire from ever being involved with phrases as serious as "the plot of Thaos, servant of the goddess Woedica" ever again. This goes less than well

( _collage kindly provided by @EmJ93/https://ariela-of-aedyr.tumblr.com/_ )

Act 1 Ch 1

Bunting surveyed the room. It was full of beaming and attentive faces, ripe with brown-nosing intentions. He had assembled a group of competent advisors from various neighboring courts and palaces, pilfering only the wisest, kindest, and most agreeable councilors to help him administer his newly untroubled domain. They were not yes-men, but they were content to do all his work for him, and that was priceless.

From his post to Bunting’s right, Brick surveyed the room. The advisors had been casually discussing politics and logistics for a while, and despite them speaking in a language Brick knew well, they might as well have not been. This was strangely pleasant, as it allowed his mind to wander amidst the indecipherable bantering. Brick was normally a more attentive bodyguard, but there were not many threats to assess inside Bunting’s secure keep, especially not in a war room full of ancient bores and uninspired furniture. Still, he appreciated Bunting including him as a valued equal at high-level meetings that his piss-poor slave education could have never qualified him for otherwise. 

Keff did not survey the room. This was primarily because she was not there, or not there yet. Bunting couldn’t tell which was true. Well, the former was definitely true, but he was waiting for confirmation on the latter. He had asked her to come to this, partially because that’s what you do when you have an elven prodigy coincidentally groomed to be a ruler in your employ, and partially because he thought she might end up taking on all the responsibilities he couldn’t delegate to the geriatrics. To be honest, it was mostly the second thing. 

But Keff did not emerge and so it fell to Bunting to direct the band of do-gooders.

“Let’s begin,” he began.

His audience listened with eager anticipation. When you save the world from a complex plan constructed by a reincarnated cosmic manipulator involving long-lost civilizations, soul energy, and undead coma babies, you gain a bit of stardom in all spheres of society, circles of ambitious old men included. Bunting had even impressed himself with the way he had stepped into the role of the kingly hero. Orlans, the species of undersized and thick-haired forest creatures to which Bunting owned an indifferent membership, rarely received basic decency from society’s human and elven majority, much less power and praise. And yet here he was, an established figure in the canon of Dyrwoodan lore. Terrific.

Brick too had benefited from their adventures. The big blue fugitive had found little refuge in the Dyrwood before meeting Bunting, what with him being a penniless aumaua, a race of beings that most could not describe eruditely beyond calling them big, often blue, and threatening. Yet, since their travels together, he too had bridged the racial obstacles in his path and had gained the trust of many, including the castle’s locally-sourced garrison. Although, again, despite his disarming smile and patient demeanor, he was still a colossus with a severe talent in bladesmanship, so who knows what they truly thought of him?

But while the opinions of others might have been in question, Brick’s and Bunting’s opinions toward each other were not. The two had built the success of their quest to save the world on the strength of their bond. Together now, in that room, both could feel the weight of history behind them as Bunting spoke into action his commands for a new era of tranquility and benevolence throughout the land.

“Hey hey, you slimy lice-eating shit-maggots!” Bunting winced as the owner of the voice strode into the room. 

“Starting without me?” said Barry, settling into Keff’s empty seat. Barry was also an orlan but his lineage had a distinctively tamer look than Bunting’s. This more human appearance made him much easier on the eyes than anyone related to Bunting. Truthfully, he would have been more handsome even if this were not the case but hey, no need to rub it in.

“Starting… without you?” Bunting asked, internally cursing his slow response, knowing Barry thrived on catching him off guard.

“Of course,” said Barry, his eternal smirk beyond parody. “We can’t make a decision about our keep without all of us here, right?” Brick furrowed his brow.

“All of us?” Bunting asked, his advisors staggeringly oblivious to his bewilderment and Barry’s goading machinations.

“Of course. The girls are right behind me,” said Barry

“The gir-” Bunting was cut off by the arrival of two unwashed figures, both fresh from ranging the surrounding woods.

“Bear is waiting in the hall,” said the taller woman, the elf’s uncommon accent threading the name of her animal into a compromise between “bayer” and “baiyuh.” Whereas Barry’s smirk spun a conniving and insidious thread, Greene’s grin traced a little more mischievous and contrarian. “Aria was worried he’d scare your pets” she continued, indicating the still-ignorant advisors.

“Hiya Bunting!” the more considerate member of the duo said. Aria was yet another orlan, with features like Barry, but with an education like Brick. “Nothing dangerous today!” A loose twig fell out of her hair onto the floor.

Bunting regained his composure. “What are you doing here?” he asked, mostly to Barry.

“I told ya, Bunting, we’re here to help make decisions about the castle we won together,” Barry said, feigning innocence in that infuriating way that he had mastered.

“It is not our castle,” Brick said firmly, stepping in to save Bunting the indignity of dealing with this. “Bunting was granted it by releasing the previous Watcher. You were there!”

“I was there,” said Barry. “I recall all of us fighting our way through an endless dungeon of horrors as a group.”

“You were there as paid assistance, we all were, we were all working together to help,” Brick said. “You didn’t, you weren’t passed the title by a fragmented soul like he was, you, you know the reasons.” Explaining the exact rules of the dynamic between a legendary hero with a destiny connected to the sins of his past life and his hired-help-turned-friends was not something Brick would have been good at in a relaxed environment.

“We all stopped the Hollowborn Crisis together. At what point did Bunting deserve more of a reward than the rest of us?” As Barry spoke, Greene crossed her arms.

“No one is going to steal from me” Greene insisted. 

“No one is stealing from you- and Barry, the Crisis had nothing to do with the thing with the castle, and you know Bunting is a Watcher who spoke with the gods and the- he’s not different but that-” Brick was overheating. The other guards in the room watched, befuddled at the breakdown of Brick’s normally calm demeanor. 

“You’re stealing from us, Bunting?” asked Aria, in a way so curious and devoid of malice that Bunting winced once more.

“No! Of course not! Look, now you’ve got her thinking that!” Brick was roaring. Aria looked confused.

“Restrain yourself, Brick,” said Barry. “There’s no reason to yell at her just for wanting to be treated well. Why are you mad at her for not wanting you to steal from her?” Barry was winning so viciously and effortlessly that Bunting considered abdicating to the birds flying by the window. Although silent, the advisors were starting to detect the power struggle.

“You demanded that we roam the forest protecting your castle,” said Greene. “Why should we do anything for you?” This was at least a question Bunting felt he could field.

“You asked if you could stay at Caed Nua,” said Bunting quizzically. “I said yes. Then you just started walking the woods every day with Aria and said it was ranging. You never want to be inside and I have never asked anything of you.”

“Well, I’m not going to be stolen from,” said Greene.

“What am I stealing from you, exactly?” asked Bunting. He knew to argue in this manner was degrading his authority and heroic image, but Greene’s claim was so evidently false and bizarre that he felt he could get away with it. 

“I think the real question is what haven’t you stolen?” said Barry. “How much more are you going to disrespect them and me, the captain of your guard?” Barry had named himself captain of the guard minutes after first settling in at Caed Nua. The job seemed to come with no formal responsibilities as far as Bunting could tell, but Barry’s impressive fighting ability had made him a hit amongst the guardsmen, so Bunting had left it alone. Barry never gave actual commands, but the implication that he was entitled to do so was maddening to Brick, who was operationally captain of the guard. They hadn’t bothered to actually pass out titles.

“What did you take? I would have given it to you if you just asked,” said Aria.

“You’re taking advantage of good people,” said Barry.

“I don’t like that. I don’t let people take advantage of me. You don’t disrespect me. I have a code: I don’t tolerate people not treating me well.” Greene said.

“He’s not taking anything from anyone!” Brick was apoplectic. “It’s his castle, he lets us live here-”

“Aren’t we all friends? When did this become a conflict?” said Bunting.

“Yes. We’re friends. We saved the world together. We make the laws and decisions of the realm together,” said Barry.

“Those things don’t follow! They don’t necessarily mean- you can’t expect that t- you’re obviously just trying to-” The dumbstruck advisors could only watch as the last pretense of etiquette faded and the room descended into total cacophony.

“I’m not a pushover. You can’t talk to me like that”

“Talk to you like what?”

“Do you not like us, Bunting? I like you.”

“A shameful way to treat so-called friends”

“It’s! His! Castle!”

“I can pack my things. I hope you don’t hate me.”

“We’re not going anywhere. Bear and I deserve a castle after all that we did for the world.”

“You don’t even like sleeping inside!”

“Are you not going to give them what they deserve?”

“You don’t even want to run a castle! Why are you even here?”

“Bunting, I don’t have anywhere to go. Do I really have to leave?”

“I’m not telling to you to leave-”

“Oh but you want her to leave? Do you think she’s too stupid to know the difference?”

“You are not-just because you are not part of- you are not part of the council but that doesn’t mean you’re unwanted.”

“And by what qualification are you here, Brick? What wisdom makes you more worthy of a spot than her or her?”

“I’m here for his protection-”

“From what? Wrinkles and gout?”

“Brick has gout?”

“I- no I don’t have gout-”

“You’re only here because he thinks you’re a useful tool. I’m the captain of the guard. I could reassign you to-”

“I’m going to get Bear and bring him in. See if he likes how you’re robbing me.”

“You are not captain of the guard.”

“Brick, does the gout hurt?

“Barry, do not grab for your weapon!”

“Is that a threat, Brick? Are you threatening the captain of the guard?”

“Barry, there’s no need to say-”

“Don’t tell us what we need, tyrant!”

“I don’t have gout!”

“Barry put down the sword!”

“Oh wow! Barry, is that a new sword?”

“I want my gold returned to me!”

“What gold?”

“I’ll figure that out later.”

“Brick, are you dying?”

“Barry, this is unacceptab-” 

“Guards! Arrest that big blue-

“ _Hello_ .” The word floated through the air, melodic, captivating, divine. The clamor ceased immediately. The melody of _hello_ overwhelmed Bunting’s assembled companions, turning them emotionally placid in a delicate, serene pause as Keff followed her voice into the room. 

“I apologize for the time of my arrival, Lord Bunting,” she said. “Discerning the source of some errant soul fragments has distracted me from my other duties.” She stood next to Barry, placing her hand on the armrest of her stolen chair. He winced. “My lords,” she continued, addressing the flabbergasted advisors. “Our friend Barry would make a _marvelous_ jester.” The word marvelous came as a thick verbal liqueur. It seemed to sedate Barry deeper into his seat. She turned her head to look at the upstart with such a ridiculous grace that it nearly caused half those present to yell “sweet agony how is this possible?” They didn’t, but if you were there you’d sense the compulsion. People are pretty adamant about how they can restrain themselves from saying things they don’t want to say, but they have no idea what they’re talking about. You wouldn’t stand a chance; you’d have no control. This was staggeringly ridiculous.

“Jester. Jesting,” said Barry, scrambling to regain his sardonic cadence. “Of course. I was just joking, no need to lose your temper, Brick.” His nettlesome delivery was shaky but he felt like he had saved face.

Greene scowled. Keff’s bullshit didn’t work half as well on her as anyone else, but Keff did have the upper hand at the moment. 

“Always… nice... to see an elven sister,” was Greene’s begrudging compromise. This was nonsense even to the least perceptive person not named Aria in the room. Given the preponderance of their people, feeling a kinship to someone just because they were also an elf was like bonding over both of them having noses. Still, it was an acceptable sign of deference.

“Keff!” Aria said. “Keff, I started that book you gave me about souls! It’s hard but I’m almost halfway finished!”

Keff looked to Aria, skipping past Greene without a moment’s consideration. 

“Wonderful,” she said. The response was brief but Keff knew it was more than enough for Aria to feel heard and appreciated. Keff also knew that Aria was too old to struggle with a book written for such a young audience, even considering her isolated heritage. Aria was also too old to not be able to read the intensity in the room. She clearly needed more direct guidance. But finding the time and will to overcome Greene’s territorial protectiveness over the young orlan was a hard enough challenge even on days where they weren’t staging a coup out of boredom and confusion, so Keff turned back to Bunting instead.

“Please let me know what I missed,” she said. Bunting opened his mouth but struggled to find words to push out of it.

“I could read back the minutes” offered a smitten advisor.

Bunting’s hands launched into a negatory gesture at an impossible speed. “Absolutely not.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know if you were able to discern who was speaking during the chaos even without dialogue tags.
> 
> Comments of any type are welcome


	2. Act 1 Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The big three get a chance to wind down and enjoy each other's company. Unfortunately, they do not have the metacontextual knowledge that they are in Chapter 2, which is a very serious place. We do not have fun in Chapter 2.

Act 1 Chapter 2

Brick kept his hand tightly gripped on the hilt of his sword as the attendees exited the room. The advisors shuffled out first, already lost in a discussion about some asinine treaty or land tax or beard trimming policy. They had focused on extremely important boring nonsense for the rest of the afternoon, and had long since forgotten Barry’s discomforting kerfuffle, too taken in by Keff’s commanding presence and the joyful art of bureaucracy.

Greene and Aria followed behind, the orlan cheerfully bidding everyone a long farewell before her self-proclaimed guardian dragged her through the doorway. Greene turned back one last time to roll her eyes at Keff, and to make sure Keff saw she was rolling her eyes at her, and to make sure Keff knew that Greene knew that Keff saw her rolling her eyes at her. Keff, who was eight thousand miles above these infantile theatrics, simply stared through her. Greene uttered a barbed witticism (that only very lightly relied on wit) but said it at the sheepish volume you use when you’re not looking for further trouble. Keff didn’t hear Greene’s parting jab but she did see Barry stop abruptly in front of Bunting’s chair.

“Don’t take everything so seriously or you’ll never last a day at this, Bunting. Try listening to your subjects and supporters. Don’t lords need to be likable?” he said, wearing a smile so wry that it nearly broke off his face and into the ether. He began to say something else, but Keff had moved her focus from the departed Greene to face him, and so he thought better of it. Instead, he gave Bunting a playful push on the shoulder that stunned Brick with its impropriety and then marched with great bravado out the door. 

Brick remained immobile for another brief fraction of a moment and then slammed the door shut behind him. Now that it was just the three of them, close chums that they were, they could finally let their guard down and relax. Three iconic heroes bonded by an unshakeable friendship with a brief respite from their responsibilities. A good time to be calm.

“Fuck!” said Brick, very loudly and calmly and perhaps only the first thing. 

“I agree,” said Keff. “You were very disappointing.” Brick took this about as well as one takes suddenly being liberated from their spine. This derision was a far cry from Keff’s signature stately humility.

“I-eh-I? Me? The he who is who?” Brick said, trying desperately to reorganize the words in his head to the way they were supposed to go even though Keff elf confusing said big what.

“Yes, you. The Dyrwood’s favorite gentle giant, caught losing his temper from a few brief seconds of vexation. A fabulous display of self-control.” said Keff.

“I was protecting Bunting from lowering himself to Barry’s level,” said Brick.

“You lowered yourself far beneath Barry’s ‘level,’” said Keff. It wasn’t a height joke because this was Keff, but you’d be forgiven for thinking it was.

“He was willing to -” 

“Barry has never failed to make you make a fool of yourself,” said Keff.

“Never failed? How long have you known me, Keff?” Brick was indignant. “When have I ever given Barry the satisfaction?” Brick had not realized how much he valued Keff’s opinion, never having realized that her openhearted approval was conditional.

“Never, I suppose,” said Keff, setting herself up for a sweet sweet reversal, “Never except during every fight we have ever fought. When you are humiliated, you fight like a spurned lover. When you are angered, you seek pain to resolve it. That is what Barry was testing today: how you react when violence is not available to soothe you. And he was right, you are nothing when you have to face the fact that your inadequacies don’t have throats for you to cut.”

These words hit Brick like a gut punch, and then another gut punch, and then a sucker punch, and then a disheartening letter from a childhood idol who adds a postscript about planning on hitting you with a gut punch. 

Bunting lacked the metaphorical emotional canal needed to tenderly guide the shit river of Brick’s internal implosion so he turned to Keff.

“You really helped today. I appreciate it.” He thought that was a good, mature, and appropriate statement. Was it not? How was it not good? How was i-

“You’re not inspiring confidence, Bunting. You cannot and will not rule for long if a threat as minor as Barry can trounce you so easily,” Keff said, with an admonishment that Bunting did not see coming that he should have seen coming.

“I am still the Watcher of Caed Nua, despite any trouncing,” said Bunting, a wee smidgen disgruntled. “This is directly due to your work on my behalf. Which makes this all confusing. You keep saying “you” instead of “us.” Are you not also part of the establishment that Barry is attacking? Isn’t that why you stepped in today? Didn’t we all come back to this place to work together as friends? Does anybody seem to remember talking about this or have I actually coerced all of you into freely volunteering to be paid and housed indefinitely?” Bunting was proud of his big speech, feeling that it was a proportionate response that Keff would concede to. Cute.

“This is your castle and he is your lieutenant,” said Keff, gesturing to the stupified Brick, who seemed to be lost in a mental fog with no lighthouse in sight. “You have been gracious enough to allow me to live here while I work on discerning the transmundane, but I am not here to be part of the Dyrwoodan aristocracy.”

“It didn’t seem that way this morning when you spent two hours aristocratically detailing how to expand our, er, my, domain,” said Bunting, who wasn’t argumentative by nature, but who also knew the chance to catch Keff being ‘human,’ flawed, and mean was too golden to reject. Very cute.

“I sought a way to keep your councilors engaged and our beds secure, not to partake in your rule-by-heroism. I have no desire to join the murals and paintings that have been made of the glorious escapades of the Watcher of Caed Nua.” Keff spoke dramatically as a matter of habit and image but never with this level of saturated sarcasm. Bunting pressed on.

“No desire for mythic fame, eh Keff? Should we tell Thaos Ix Arkannon, immortal servant of the shadowed queen, that you weren’t seeking a spot in history when you smashed in his chest with a hammer made from the bones of a fallen god? You were just paying rent for your living quarters when you shattered his legacy at the birthplace of the gods and liberated the trapped souls of a generation of children?” 

“My desire to keep you alive may offend you, Lord Bunting, but you to seem to flourish in your offense,” Keff said, her tone slightly dipping into its magical potential. It was a resigned note that seemed to tell the tale of the eerie elf as an infallible parent who expected more from her mortal child. It was really impressive. You’d clap. “If you’ve finished grousing about continuing to breathe, I have something to show you regarding those soul fragments.”

It was only then that Bunting noticed the light but severe strain that had developed beneath the elf’s eyes. Keff’s face was already quite so unusual that it was quite easy to gloss over any other abnormalities. Her appearance could best be described as timeless, but not in the way one might circumlocute about a friend of a friend with bizarre ideas about fashion. For all Keff’s grandstanding about staying out of pompous portraits, she was most definitely from one. Imagine an artist’s rendition of a historical figure, alive but distant, captivating but uncanny. Keff’s skin was also unusual. The color was almost entirely just like any other elf’s, almost imperceptibly so, but it was just enough to where it could make you feel like something was off without you being able to notice what was giving you that impression. To quote Greene, “she looks like the ghost of the bitch who invented reading.” 

“Keff, when’s the last time you slept?” Bunting inquired, realizing that her weariness may have begun far before the day’s delicate challenge.

“Resting is for those who have left their work to others, Lord Bunting. Between my deliberations at my laboratory on the behalf of your people and the labor you have kindly let me take here to serve them further, I will not know my bed until you agree to get out of yours,” she said.

Brick had noticed the fatigue crawling across her face as well, but if he had sympathy for the strenuous consequences of Keff’s sleepless efforts to keep him and the rest of the realm safe, it was far from the front of his mind. She had hardly been tolerant of his fractured mood.

“We don’t all have bespelled voices, Keff. Some of us have to rely on-” 

“Your pride in your magical sterility and the lack of responsibility it grants you has been noted, Brick. Now find your face. We must travel to my residence and others will be watching. The courtyard will be full of subjects who have great affection for the illustrious and wise ‘Uncle’ Brick. I would love to meet him.” 

Keff, of course, had always had the intelligence to be so relentlessly and inventively insulting, but it was surprising to Bunting that she would do so, almost world-shatteringly so. But the world still spun and so there they were, Keff the diplomatic and benevolent mystic, Brick the fatherly and well-mannered bodyguard, and himself, Bunting, Watcher of Caed Nua, sparkling, mythical, fantastic, the competent and unparalleled ruler whom all adored.

They all stood and found their faces. Brick held the door open in unpleasant deference as the trio departed, three iconic heroes heading back to their responsibilities, three pals who lived for each other, three companions whose friendship made the world go ‘round.

  
  
  
  



	3. Act 1 Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Act 1 Chapter 3, the list chapter with a lot of lists. You might take Chapter 3 for granted, what with its relative lack of death and ultimatums, but one day you'll miss Chapter 3 and its paragraphs of calm and peaceful description. You'll be in Chapter 30, struggling to grasp for air as all hell breaks loose, thinking "oh if I had only cherished Chapter 3." But maybe this lesson can only be learned the hard way.

Act 1 Ch 3

Barry leaned lazily against one of the buildings in Caed Nua’s courtyard. They were all refurbished, remodeled, and reconstructed to Bunting’s exact design, which could best be summarized as “whatever the head builder wanted to do.” Several shops drew in residents from across the Dyrwood, or at least those who lived too far away from any competing businesses. Many actually did live closer to a maker of curios of disturbingly high quality, but the craftsman’s marketing prowess was nowhere near his artisanal one, so Caed Nua’s coffers swelled while he languished in a lonely pit of poor advertising. There was an open-air forum that had been rebuilt simply because the old one had already existed when the castle was first reinhabited, and so it got about as much use as when it was a pile of stones in disarray. There was a botanical garden and a hedge maze maintained by rival groundskeepers who competed endlessly in displays of grandeur so pitiful that they will never be mentioned again. A drilling yard of sorts had spilled through the emptier parts of the yard, flooding the less trafficked areas so that soldiers could hit each other with swords and aim bows at things they could sometimes hit with their arrows.

But what Barry was leaned up against was perhaps the most mercurial of buildings, the central chapel. This is not to suggest the edifice found itself besieged by a constant facelift, but rather that its innards were often appropriated to different means. None of the permanent residents of the castle used the chapel, and thus the focus of worship in the holy room fluctuated with whoever had decided to drop by.

Some days it was occupied by adherents of Galawain, the god of living in the wilderness just to prove how tough you were. These people were disagreeable and without self-awareness, but thankfully the nature of their beliefs made their visits quite short, as they needed to scamper back into the brush to boast to passing wildlife about how endless fear and pain builds character. Greene found the whole thing an unnecessary complication, as she could easily accomplish this noble and humble lifestyle without ever dipping a toe into religion.

Other times it was a lone unassisted elderly visitor setting up a shrine to the god of death. Berath was a rather immovable adjudicator of longevity, and thus her priests were never sought after even by her worshippers. Nobody cared much for clergy who told you that not only was death near but frankly, you were being quite rude for not having jumped into the reincarnation cycle sooner. You’d think desperate old men might have had better luck invoking Eothas, god of hope (and god of getting violently murdered by the Dyrwoodans), but the Dyrwoodans had violently murdered him, so Berath was all they had.

Wael, god of being very difficult to work with, had mysterious supplicants arrive at odd hours to do mysterious things that they claimed were far too mysteriously complicated and simple for anyone else to understand. They were generally seen as annoying, and their inexplicable behavior often led to them being run out of town by the unamused. Priests of Wael saw this as a religious service itself, and often performed prayers and rites while dodging insults and rotten potatoes on the way out.

There were other deities, like Hylea, god of being sympathetic to the oppressed but never standing up for them, Skaen, god of not being sympathetic to the oppressed but wantonly murdering oppressors (and sometimes also the oppressed) on their behalf, and Magran, god of being on fire, but Barry’s focus was on the mortals in front of him, all easily separable into four groups. The first was the interior guard, which was responsible for the defense of Bunting and his amiable gang of fun-loving heroes. To Barry’s chagrin, the guardsmen found his ability to do a double backflip/decapitation combo equally as compelling as Brick’s aura of well-reasoned maturity. Barry thought this was abhorrent, an insult to the dashing orlan’s universally-accepted status as captain of the guard. ‘Brick’s Boys’ were well-trained but, to quote Greene, “less appealing than a corpse-coated swamp.”

Then you had the exterior garrison, locals committed to the castle and the realm. These lads were far more enjoyable, an objective evaluation Barry had made after the garrison declared him their unofficial champion for single-handedly defeating a tribe of nearby ogres. Literally single-handedly, he did it with his dominant hand tied behind his back for extra acclaim. A few of ‘Barry’s Beauts’ noticed him and waved, shouting friendly jokes about how they wished they could relax in the sun without anyone breathing down their necks. Barry responded with a subtle and thoughtful nod that let them know he was the best guy there ever was.

The commoners were third. They came in and out throughout the day to make use of the marketplace and to bother Bunting about various issues. Today was a busy day for the former. The weather, which usually ranged between gray and dark-gray, had for some reason decided to be absurdly welcoming. Bunting’s subjects were crowding the courtyard enough to where some of them were close to making the unfashionable decision to sit on the benches of the forum. Such disastrous social decisions were averted when the doors of the keep suddenly opened and their owner emerged.

“My lord! My lord!” Attribution of this quote was impossible as the villagers pushed up against the guardsmen shielding Bunting’s approach. Soon it was being shouted by everyone. Barry scoffed, but no one noticed his over-dramatized disgust. Bunting, Brick, and Keff were the face of the land’s revitalization, so seeing these mighty heroes was a far more spiritual moment than anything happening in the chapel. The heads of households yelled to get Bunting’s ear, clamoring to tell him of the good fortune he had brought them. The young and young-at-heart rushed to embrace Brick, who had perfected the hearty laugh standard amongst the large and generous. He waved off his Boys so that a band of particularly daring children could climb his back with playful abandon. Keff’s fans were more solemn, watching her every step like she was woven of magic. Solemn is a slight exaggeration, some were yelling “she walks like she’s woven of magic!” but that’s peasants for you. They don’t know to not read the subtext. All around were cries of appreciation and joy.

“Pathetic.” Greene had found her way over to Barry, Bear in tow. Bear’s (bae-uhs) presence made it quite trivial to navigate through even the densest crowd, as long as that crowd was invested in not meeting Berath before supper. Greene spent most of her days in the forest with Aria, meaning infrequent travelers to Caed Nua were unaware that they were visiting Bear’s official residence, so many of the petitioners stood aghast at his arrival. Greene delighted in the idea that people believed the big furry idiot would attack anyone without her permission. Bear was a bear and had no further thoughts on this.

“Sad that you can’t get a spot in line?” said Barry, not averting his gaze from the mob of adoration.

“Am I the one constantly looking for Bunting’s attention?” asked Greene. Bear said nothing, which was unsurprising.

“I really had you pegged as more of a Keff-ite,” said Barry.

“I’m sorry; who was squirming at the mere sight of her?”

“At least I didn’t greet her like a long lost cousin.”

“Bear!” yelled Aria, running and tackling the beast with her full might. Some of the crowd were taken aback by a tiny ball of energy taking on an imposing forest animal without an ounce of worry, but the knowing looks on the Beauts’ faces assured them that this kind of wild shit happened all the time.

“Personally,” Barry continued, ignoring Aria doing Aria things, “personally I think if Keff weren’t around you’d be just fine with everything else.”

“And I think you’re two badges and a medal away from marrying your firstborn to whoever Bunting likes,” said Greene. They held a silent standoff for a brief second before bursting into laughter.

“Were you really going to demand to sit in on all those meetings?” cackled Greene, holding her sides.

“No!” said Barry, mostly telling the truth, somewhat telling the truth, maybe telling the truth. “Does Bunting really owe you gold?”

“Of course not! I probably owe him after all the coins I’ve swiped!” Greene and Barry were talented at many things, but amusing themselves was one of their greatest strengths. They traded grins. Bear and Aria rolled past them, roaring and laughing, themselves well-paired to provide entertainment to the other. A small contingent of the crowd was glancing back at them. Greene threw an apple in the air and speared it flawlessly with her first arrow, catching a manageable chunk in her mouth without effort. The few able to tear their eyes away from Bear’s hijinks gave polite applause.

“She’s pretending to hate it, you know,” said Greene, chewing unabashedly as her eyes returned to a certain member of Bunting’s group.

“Hate what?”

“The attention. The power. She drags herself into Bunting’s business like she’s being sentenced but she loves it.”

“Getting to interact with me is a real blessing, I agree,” said Barry, not too invested in Greene’s more serious musings, as per always.

“I’m serious. She’d hate having to live like the rest of us. I bet she never has.”

“Huh,” mumbled Barry.

“And who even looks like that? The rest of you might know nothing about elves but I’ve never seen-” Barry had heard this speech before, and predictably let it flow in one strange orlan ear and out the other. He was more focused on Brick, who had begun to lead the procession away from the masses. He caught the big aumaua’s cheerful facade dropping a few times as he cleared a path for the others. The smug bastards were clearly headed to do something important. What could it be? They had just spent a day going over every possible detail a ruler could consider, half of which Keff had probably drawn out just to aggravate him.

“Greene! Bear can do a flip!” Aria was jubilant, unaware that she was breaking Greene’s unheeded monologue. The bemused elf turned to Bear, who was sitting upright. He was a bear. “C’mon Bear!”

Greene raised her hands to gesture ‘well?’ but Bear maintained his blank look. Aria stared expectantly. After a moment, he leaned slightly forward and then fell harmlessly onto his back.

“Close!” said Aria. Greene rolled her eyes and pounced on Bear.

“You do know you’ve wasted years refusing to accept he doesn’t understand much?” Greene said half-seriously, peering up at Aria from atop Bear’s unbothered frame. “But maybe you enjoy knowing someone has that in common with you.” Aria furrowed her brow, trying to figure out what that meant. Noticing Aria’s slow contemplation, Greene continued sardonically, “Don’t hurt yourself.” Aria was uncertain about what was happening but felt a slight compulsion to hide inside Keff’s book.

Barry remained transfixed, watching Bunting begin to politely wave off more admirers as he too resumed his march, Keff having already passed him to follow Brick. The rearguard redirected the crowd back to their business as the bigheaded celebrities headed for Brighthollow, the modern residence that offset Caed Nua’s ancient aesthetic. Brighthollow was not a name anyone particularly loved, besides Aria, obviously, but it was the name it had had since before any of them had been born, and no one had come up with a better one. They all had rooms there, but despite this, it was rare to see anyone go in or out of the luxurious manse. Greene and Aria slept outside the castle walls most nights, Barry bunked with his Beauts to prove his amazing capacity for leadership, Bunting had a palatial berth in the main keep, and it was more convenient for Brick’s duties to sleep in a makeshift bed near wherever Bunting ended up, so only Keff made full use of the dwelling. To see the full trio moving all at once to populate Brighthollow’s normally quiet halls was quite unsettling. Barry scowled.

As Bunting approached the door, his squadron of Boys parted to make room for a lone figure in a threadbare hood. The man whispered into the orlan’s curious ear and passed a sealed letter into his hands. Bunting did not seem worried by whatever had been said and muttered a brief response. Barry watched as the figure nodded and slunk off to wherever those adept in slunking off slunk off to. Barry scowled again for good measure.

Agents were the fourth and smallest group at Caed Nua. Mercenaries, independent contractors, and hunky chefs with good pathfinding abilities were hired on an inconsistent basis to carry out Bunting’s will in places near and far. They answered to Bunting alone and were assigned tasks that complemented their solitary nature. There was always some speeding out of control adventure that needed overtaking or some dark cult that needed a new culling or some acidic mystery that needed dissolving.

“Another agent off on some pointlessly dangerous errand. Would hate to be them,” said Barry. Barry wanted to be an agent of Caed Nua so fucking bad. Bunting kept his friends out of these engagements out of concern for their safety. They had already had their fair share of dungeon-diving and life-threatening magical shenanigans, allegedly. Barry was pretty sure that he was just doing that to piss him off. The pay for successfully coming back with the witch’s head or the deciphered tablets or the secret of the sultry waterfall was intoxicating, and Barry felt like there was quite a deal of untapped glory that the unsocial agents were not capitalizing on. But in a rare moment of determination, Bunting had put his tiny foot down and ended any discussion of the matter.

Brighthollow's door slammed shut behind the beleaguered lord as the commotion ceased and everyone returned to their agendas. Barry began another mental thread of bitter speculation.

“Barry!” Aria bounded toward him. She was not much younger than him, but you’d have had to have been an orlan or familiar with them to clock that at first glance. They were separated much more by their paths in life, with Aria growing up in an isolated magic-phobic science-phobic soap-phobic orlan village with little outside contact and with Barry being involved in all sorts of escapades that were far too impressive for him to have time to tell you about. She touched his arm with enthusiasm. “Barry, let’s go throw axes with the Beauts!”

He paused to consider this. Aria was quite invested in his opinion, attention, and affection, as he was part of the niche category of beings who existed. She tugged earnestly on his sleeve. “We never go because I’m never here because Greene never wants to be here but now we’re both here and we can!” Greene didn’t seem to notice any of this, too busy trying to pry an arguably delicious coin purse out of Bear’s hungry mouth.

“This really matters to you?” he asked.

“It would be fun! Greene never wants to throw axes! You’re the only other one who throws axes! No one else gets it.” The pouting girl was not wrong. Barry and Aria were bonded by their fighting styles, both being able to tap into deep reservoirs of rage to wreak a superfluous amount of havoc on their foes. Barry did rely on a more controlled, strategic fury, but what, are you a military expert? It was close enough.

“You’re right, Aria. No one else throws axes like we do. I’m game.” He was not wrong. The Beauts spent many hours trying to replicate their success with flung melee weapons, but they were never going to be good enough to be worthwhile competition.

“Really? Really really? You always say you’ll show up and then you never do and I always win and I don’t want to always win!” Aria was cartwheeling.

“I’ll be right behind you.”

“You promise?”

“I already said yes! Go on!”

Aria danced past Greene, hooting and hollering. Bear eagerly joined in pursuit at a similar volume. Greene gave an exasperated sigh and ran after the discordant parade. Barry waved at Aria and indicated he would follow. Then he waited for the girls to pass out of sight, made a note of which Boys were on duty, and headed straight for Brighthollow.


	4. Act 1 Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clouds gather

Act 1 Ch 4

Brighthollow was elegant. Brighthollow was serene. Brighthollow was, as Greene would say “where useless shitbirds pretend no one wants to shoot ‘em in their useless shit throats.” She wasn’t wrong. The villa did seem like it was built for a better world. It was unmatched in comfort by anywhere else in the Dyrwood, except perhaps by the nicest estates in the most disgustingly glamorous neighborhoods of the capital. Wandering around inside, you’d come to the impression that the people of the land must have had no worries at all, or how else would they have conceptualized a place that did not seem to recognize pain or sin? This was quite the glob of hyperbole but Brighthollow did seem frivolous given the vast amount of danger and suffering lurking not too far away in all directions. Quite vulgar in some regards, if you thought about it. It was unlike anywhere any resident of Caed Nua had ever lived, save one. Bunting didn’t see the obscenity. To him, it evoked pleasant memories of a far off place with very silly geography: home. His thoughts briefly drifted to his parents. Something exploded.

“Upstairs, now!” roared Keff. Brick and Bunting sprinted past her, quickly surpassing her unimpressive stride. They nearly crashed into each other making the turn at the top of the stairs; Brick steadying the much smaller man while never breaking momentum. The shockwave had emitted from Keff’s room, a sizeable suite that also contained her various arcane and metaphysical experiments. Brick threw the door open and stormed in. He soon found himself in his all too familiar state of confusion. There was no sign of gunpowder, scorch marks, or any of the sort of debris and residue that usually come with the unplanned explosion deluxe package. He beckoned in Bunting with his off-hand, still looking at the startling abundance of nothing.

“You’ve... made a real... mess,” said Bunting. Keff was still coming up the stairs but the words weren’t for her. They had been compelled out of his throat by the sheer chaos before him. It encompassed the entire room. Dire thoughts swelled inside his mind. He was well-learned in the art of encountering the sudden arrival of weird shit, but this was beyond even his experience. Brick didn’t get it.

“What- there’s no- where is the-where is the- it that is what?” he asked, the obvious answer eluding him.

“The adra, Brick. It’s broken,” Bunting replied, gesturing to a pile of green crystalline material strewn about Keff’s neatly cluttered desk. Brick still didn’t get it.

“I’ve seen broken adra before. It usually just, well it usually just breaks.” Brick was a fantastic friend and fighter, but this comment was why critical thinking was about to be added to the core curriculum at the imaginary university in Bunting’s night terrors.

“Brick. You are speaking to Bunting. He is a Watcher.” said Keff, joining them, speaking in the tired tone one uses when someone asks what the primary ingredients in a glass of water happen to be. Brick already knew Bunting was a Watcher, as did most, and he knew Keff knew he already knew this, but he still couldn’t discern what relevance it had. He furrowed his brow, one of his many well-trained muscles, trying to squeeze the right thought out.

“Are you watching, er- seeing souls?” Brick asked, guessing the thing he already knew, mostly accurately.

“Worse,” said Bunting. “What insane science crime have you been committing in here?”

“I was studying the use of adra in storing soul energy. It seems I may need new research materials,” said Keff, disregarding his accusatory tone.

“You were tampering with unstable adra?”

“Of course not,” said Keff. “When these adra shards were harvested they were safe, half-empty.”

“They wouldn’t have blown if they were half-empty. You figured out how to store soul energy in adra and didn’t think to mention it?” This type of energy transfer would have been a landmark discovery, a buried lede if there ever was one.

“Again, of course not. I did not destabilize the shards. I was observing the fluctuations in energy last night when the levels started to slowly elevate outside their normal ranges,” she said. Brick stared at her, already lost just seconds after being back on track.

“And?” Bunting asked.

“And then, it appears, while I was away, they began to do so rapidly.”

“You can’t tell why?”

“The adra only contained pure soul energy when it was brought in. Soul energy records differently than the presence of a distinguishable individual soul.” She gestured to a measuring device that Brick had mistaken for a poorly made copper sculpture, or perhaps a creatively-designed mixing bowl. “Only last night did I start to detect the presence of actual souls, but-.”

“But something wasn’t right,” said Bunting, taking in the scene only he could perceive.

“Yes,” said Keff. “The souls are rotten, inert, as if they have fallen apart over time. But It does not make sense. You have encountered souls that have waited thousands of years to pass on to their next life. Souls do not spoil.” She raised a dial and corrected a lens on an instrument that Brick could have sworn was for brewing hallucinogenic ale.

“They’re not spoiled,” said Bunting, staring at the cataclysm before him: hundreds of incomplete, intensely degraded souls careening haphazardly in all directions. “They’re spent.”

“Spent?”

“Discarded. Exploited.”

“Impossible. Adra machinery does not ‘use up’ souls, much less cast them off.”

“Not the new ones, no,” said Bunting, looking back at her. Keff only needed a second to intuit what he meant. She looked back at him. Brick looked at both of them.

“I don’t get it.”

From his hiding spot outside, Barry scowled. He couldn’t tell what they were up to, but through Keff’s window he could see some adra lying about, and that was no good. Whenever adra was involved, it meant there was bound to be some frustratingly complicated situation that inevitably ended with Bunting demanding that they all bet their lives on one of Keff’s crackpot theories. And not for some actual reward, no, it was always for some thankless quest where they risked their necks for no reason. Risking his neck for no reason was a fulfilling hobby but Barry hated when it was mandatory. Adra grew out of the damn ground, yet Bunting was always making it out to be some heavenly thing only Keff could comprehend. Most adra, anyway. He glanced back at the chapel, where adra pillars peeked out through the earth at several locations. Five, to be exact. To most, that exactness was arbitrary. But Barry knew better.

Back inside, Bunting paced through the storm of drained souls. Being able to see the souls of the departed had not granted him an insight into the scientific technicalities of their construction nor their differentiation from soul energy. Keff seemed to have no idea, either, and she was the foremost authority on this type of thing. He hoped so, at least. He hadn’t doublechecked with all the other scholars of adra-based metaphysics to see where she ranked in knowledgeability. Brick raised an object off the table, trying to orient it right side up, deterred greatly by not being able to detect what side was up.

“So, broken souls for some reason but we don’t know why?” asked Brick. Keff snatched the device out of his hand, ignoring Brick’s surprisingly decent lay understanding of the matter in favor of placing the contraption on a far off shelf. Barry tilted his head in his shady perch. What she was doing with what could obviously only be a spyglass for cross-eyed frogs, he couldn’t tell.

“Brick, we need some time to figure this out. You’re dismissed,” said Bunting, not giving him the courtesy of eye contact.

“Dismissed?” said Brick.

“Yes, dismissed, You can take the afternoon off. You’re off duty.”

“Bunting, I’m not ‘on duty.’ I’m just… here.”

“Brick, we don’t need you right now.”

“But we’re on to something really important?”

“Which is why we need you to leave.”

“But I’m,-” Formulating exactly why this discomforted him was challenging Brick. It was a feeling that tangled itself into an unmanageable web when he tried to verbalize it. Each mental sentence kept colliding into the other, some parts needing to be justified by other parts that also had to come before, other parts requiring vocabulary and syntax that had never been part of his fluency in any of his known languages. All of this was making it impossible to hold the whole thing in his head at once. The feeling was roughly: “I know you don’t need a bodyguard right now, I’m not here as your man-at-arms; I’m here as part of the informal adventuring party that has always worked together as an equal group of friends since the day we met. You’re technically the lord in the context of this castle that we won together, but I didn’t think you’d invoke that detail when it was just the three of us by ourselves. I didn’t think you meant to order me around when I offered to be your bodyguard, I just offered to take that position because I had to do something around here and because it was what you had hired me to do before we became friends. I’m here as your friend; I’m here as someone equally concerned in the mysterious soul situation; I didn’t think my involvement with mysteries and concerns was contingent on your approval, I didn’t think you would play your ‘I’m in charge’ card in that manner. It didn’t even occur to me that that would be a possibility.” Unfortunately, there were no peasants nearby to brazenly proclaim this subtext, so instead Brick found himself trapped inside his stuttering.

“B… Bunting-” Adra in Keff’s armoire let off a startling boom.

“Go!”

Barry gazed back at the courtyard from Brighthollow’s nearest tree. He watched Bunting’s handpicked advisors stroll along through the yard enjoying local delicacies provided by the market at a generous discount. Their lord had no doubt offered to cover the lost percentage himself. It occurred to Barry that these antique stooges would need somewhere to sleep, even considering that some of the greyer ones would be relocating to a more permanent location shortly. HIs room at Brighthollow was firmly off-limits, he decided. He wondered what it looked like.

The traders were still attracting a strong crowd, large enough to where, further out, Aria could still be waiting for him to emerge from the throng, reasonably assuming that he was concealed several layers deep. But even if she looked in his actual direction, neither she nor anyone else could have seen him in his obscured position. He scanned further down the width of the building, looking for an opened, or at least openable, window. He had one hand on a branch, ready to fling himself onto a neighboring tree to get a better look when Brick walked out the front door in a solemn daze.

Brick paused in the rare sunlight. He turned to one of the Boys guarding Brighthollow to explain that he was heading off for the day, and thus someone else would have to take on his shift as lead guard and also that he wasn’t sure when he’d return and also hey, look at this weather, isn’t it something? In other words, he nodded at them and they nodded back. A pair of Boys offered to accompany him to buffer the crowd whenever he was headed but he declined. He wasn’t planning on being anywhere near where another commoner meet and greet might erupt. He really didn’t want to meet or greet anyone, especially not stubborn orlans who gave him commands. Barry popped into view.

“Brick, come over here for a second!” Barry’s smirk was fully locked and loaded. Brick pretended to ignore him and walked further away. “Brick, come on!” Brick did not break his stride until Barry put himself squarely in his path. “You didn’t have fun today. I get it.” Brick attempted to sidestep him. “Look, I know we had some words but-” Barry caught a glimpse of the raging fury behind Brick’s silent eyes and hesitated, realizing there was something else on the big man’s mind.

“Bunting owns this dump and he’s our friend- your close friend. I understand. But do close friends-” Barry continued his barrage of shrewdly pernicious implications for a full minute before realizing that his target was not listening to a word he was saying.

Brick looked ahead as if he were addressing everyone in Eora except for Barry. He uttered a few words in his naturally deep and powerful tone, but without the softening he usually applied to come across less threatening.

“Try a tree with bigger leaves next time.”

From a window, Bunting watched the two of them part, a new storm swirling within him.


	5. Act 1 Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the gang finally gets out of the house for once

  
Act 1 Ch 5

Aria walked. The forest was its usual ornery self: dangerous, brambly, hard to navigate, aggressively gray, and generally disagreeable; but she didn’t mind. Forests were bull-headed for sure, but they meant well when it came down to it. The Dyrwood could pretend it was a hideous deathtrap all it wanted, but there was no hiding the fact that ever since they had cleaned out the undead, the bandits, the undead bandits, the evil druids, the cranky druids, the pirates who were definitely lost but wouldn’t admit it, and the weekend-murder-hobbyists, it was looking much more cheerful. It’s hard to intimidate those who have taken your worst to the ground. She chalked the woods’ continued unfriendliness up to the bitter embarrassment of a sore loser.

A haunted shade of a long-dead villain came flying out of a tree, hellbent on wreaking nondiscriminatory havoc on whoever disturbed its eternal suffering, which was a little ungrateful. You’d think a break from all that suffering would be a welcome relief. Aria thought so, anyway. She pulled a battle axe from its place on her thigh, and, without even pivoting to properly square herself against the monster, flicked the weapon upward with an indifferent move of her wrist. The shade screamed and faded into nothingness as she adeptly caught the axe handle and holstered it without needing to pace its downward trajectory. She saw a cool acorn up ahead.

Brick sheathed his blade or rather reversed its unsheathing. Walking this far in a full set of armor had slowed his reactions, and he hadn’t even got his damn sword out before Aria had dispatched the threat. He shuffled awkwardly to catch up to her.

“Good hit!” he said in his trademark wise and knowing cadence that he mostly never got to use. The last month had given him ample opportunity, however, as he found himself more and more in the public eye, or at least the eye of those who were lacking private perception. Keff and Bunting had shut themselves away inside her workspace for weeks, arguing into the early hours of the morning about what souls did to who and what souls agreed to let others do to them. Brick, being neither an expert in soul science nor a magically inclined soul seer, had been relegated to entertaining passerby and standing in for his friends at painfully long council meetings. The advisors were content to babble on about diplomacy, trade deals, road rights, and the poor communication habits of grandchildren for an unlimited amount of time, or at least until most of them had fallen asleep in their soup. Brick had developed a very exact memory of the war room’s walls and ceilings.

“Thanks, Brick! Next time we’ll get one together!” Aria was still a believer, even after having seen Barry unmake him so easily. She had been the first to buy into the pitch of sturdy, mature, and put-together Brick way back when they had first met. He had only just joined Bunting and Keff the night before, and while the three of them had already felt a weird precognition of mutual trust, it was not until Greene and Aria walked into the inn they were staying at that someone saw him in his fully imagined glory. While Keff and Bunting had dickered with Greene about the price of guiding them through the terrors of the Dyrwood, Brick had fielded a cavalcade of inexhaustible curiosity from the young woman. She had asked about things he knew, things he mostly knew, things he should have known, and things no one would ever tell him. To his surprise, she had not been able to tell one from another. It had all been one educational deluge of expertise to her, and ever since she had sought him out as equal an intellect as anyone else in the party.

“Keff’s book says shades cause nightmares. Is that true?” asked Aria. Brick cringed. Neither of them had been handed books as children but there was something about her persistent desire to remedy her past ignorance that unsettled him. He tried to remember if he had ever tried to learn to read, but the only memory that surfaced was of winning a childhood brawl with a repurposed cookbook strategically launched at a larger boy’s windpipe.

“Many things are possible,” he said in the character of Brick. “Many things.”

Not far behind, Bunting noted the shade’s demise. They must be somewhat close. Shades were the proper manifestation of damaged souls- if proper was the right word. Those who died with fractured souls became these soul-sucking horrors if they were particularly unlucky. If they were more fortunate, the Wheel of reincarnation gave them a pass and let them die in the normal manner, with all the delights and pleasantries dying brings. What broken souls did not do, or rather were not supposed to do, no matter the lack or surplus of luck, was become a million tiny pieces that soared for miles from their origin to the adra in Keff’s room. He would have felt a lot more comfortable if a swarm of shades had guillotined him at that moment in Brighthollow weeks prior. That would have been a logically consistent death. Greene nudged him.

“We’ve still got a ways to go, but the whole trail’s been ranged recently. That little shit’ll probably be our only surprise today.” Greene was in her element and there was no time for bullshitting. She might find Bunting to be a pretentious foreigner barely attempting to hide his wealthy incivility, but she took professional pride in her adept mastery of the forests of the Eastern Reach. Showoffs don’t take days off.

“You’re sure you understand the directions they gave us?” Bunting asked, questioning not her abilities but the coherence of the information they had been given. After they had realized that the type of adra machine that leaked highspeed soul fragments was the type that no one alive knew how to make, Keff and Bunting had sent word to neighboring lords asking them about the presence of Engwithan ruins in their realms. Engwith was a long-dead empire that had an aptitude in the manipulation of souls and adra that no civilization had been able to match since. It was so proficient that it had created the gods with this sorcery. Bunting laughed to himself. The artificiality of the gods and Thaos’s role in it all had been the revelation waiting for him at the end of his big adventure, but he rarely dwelled on it now, which amused him. It didn’t matter, he supposed. The gods could still appear out of nowhere and throw him across Eora if they wanted to, storebought or not.

“Directions were easy. Destination’s a load of shit.” When news had come of a newly uncovered remnant of Engwith, barely off the border of Bunting’s territory, Greene had nearly spat in the messenger’s face. She had been that way less than a year prior, and there had been no rotting collection of old pillars and haunting archways, she was sure of it, and there could be none of those things there now, barring a seasonal migration of marble and stone from their ancestral breeding grounds. The Dyrwood was strange, but not that strange. Bear grunted in agreement, or possibly just because he was a bear. “You should have just sent me and Aria. We’d’ve made it in half the time. Could be at home right now in your lordly castle, waiting for us to come back with the news.”

“Your reasoning is sound,” said Keff, ducking under a branch that had not been informed of the well-cleared trail carved out of the brush. From the state of the trail, it seemed that many obstacles had been late on that news. She was more graceful in her armor than Brick but compensated for that dignity at an even slower speed.

“Shaddup,” said Greene. “You-”

“I was agreeing with you,” said Keff. Greene pondered this for a moment, trying to uncover a double meaning or a trick in the other elf’s words.

“I agree with me,” Greene said. “I agree with me, but if you agree with me, why are we all out here dressed like we’re headed to kill Thaos? Didn’t we do him in for good?”

“Your reasoning is sound,” Keff repeated. “But this defies reason. We scoured these woods for any remnants of Thaos’s lost kin when we first returned to Caed Nua. Our neighbors send patrols through regularly. Passing wizards and explorers have always rummaged the Dyrwood, tracking even the slightest scent of magic. You yourself have run through these lands many times. How they could still conceal an Engwithan device with the power to eat and release souls at such a magnitude, is beyond conception.”

“Sounds like a lot of words for you’re mad you’ve been outsmarted by a bunch of dead idiots,” said Greene. She was not wrong.

“If the ruins are here,” Keff said. “You’ll not be able to make sense of them without Bunting and I, regardless. And Bunting cannot come without Bri-”

Ahead, Brick tripped, falling forward in his new expensive set of knightly armor. Greene, in a well-rehearsed leap and somersault, caught up to him in no time and braced him, preventing a complete collapse. He gave her a startled look of appreciation, the one he always gave when she saved him from his attempt to be harmonious with nature. She responded with her normal sophistication. “When running around with you freaks gets boring, I’ll make a killing keeping old shits alive.”

Bunting passed the entangled duo wordlessly. He was not sure if there was anything to settle between him and Brick, but if there was, it could probably be settled over a drink when they got back to Caed Nua. Brick had rough moments, but he was a mostly steadfast fellow. He’d probably figured out to not take what had happened in Brighthollow too personally.

Brick, in his internal melancholy, watched the Watcher go for a little too long, enough to where he got an earful from Greene as she struggled to support his weight for a longer duration. He turned back to apologize but her knees buckled and she chuckled as he fell backward when she let him drop.

The squirrels had come and gone by the time Aria heard Bunting come up behind her.

“Great day for a walk in the woods,” she mused.

“...Of course,” said Bunting, glancing at the residue of the beaten shade still slipping off Aria's axe. “This a normal day for you these days?”

“Oh no. Greene and I go for weeks without seeing anything interesting. That’s why I asked Keff for those books.” Bunting appreciated her earnest interaction. They were a rare duo amongst all the possible combinations of their friends. Brick and Bunting, Keff and Bunting, Aria and Greene, Brick and Keff, even Greene and Keff were more commonly paired on some errand or routine than the two orlans. He couldn’t recall the last time they had been alone together, or at least out of Greene’s earshot together. It had to have been at least before the destruction of Thaos, maybe even months before.

“What is a normal day these days?” he rephrased.

“Nothing much. Greene and I track a deer or let Bear attack a stream. Barry comes by sometimes but not enough.” She frowned. “He’s always so busy but he’s so nice when he’s around.”

Something about the mention of Barry’s name curdled the depths of Bunting’s soul, the word ‘something’ clearly meaning everything.

“Do you think I should tell him I’m sad every time he leaves all of a sudden?” Bunting always marveled at how she spoke to him like he was Brick, an older and wiser veteran of life’s wrath. He knew the others had no capacity for accurately gauging the age of wild orlans, but surely her more domestic ancestry hadn’t blinded her to it as well? Although Barry had never noticed it, as he definitely would have brought it up many times before now if he had. Perhaps they were perplexed by his human grooming standards. Bunting was probably the least wild-looking wild orlan to ever make it past infancy. Maybe this added layer of irregularity was confounding their perception. Maybe he should tell her he was at most only a few years older than Barry.

“You know, the thing about Barry is-” Summoning someone by mentioning their name is not powerful magic nor a common idiom in the world of Eora, but Barry’s triumphant voice appeared behind them in the distance all the same.

“One, two, one, two, almost there, lads! Almost there, on me, follow your captain, captain of the guard!” Barry was leading a small contingent of Beauts in single file. Bunting had been reluctant to bring along any foot soldiers, partially because he felt like it was an abuse of their agreement to guard Caed Nua, but mostly because there was going to be very little they could do against a foe that Bunting and his friends could not best themselves. But when he had turned to Brick to back him up against Barry’s demand, Brick had simply shrugged and deferred to the Beauts' opinion of Barry’s good judgment. Looking back on it now, Bunting realized Brick’s decision might have a lot more to do with a different orlan’s popularity.

“Barry!” Aria sprinted back past Greene and Keff to greet him.

“You seem like you might be happy to see me,” Barry’s smirk was doing an elaborate pirouette as he stared past her to lock eyes with Bunting. “How’d we catch you? I gave you a head start and everything.” Keff gingerly stepped over a log to meet the group. Barry turned his attention to her. “Keff the Swiftest, did you see who was keeping your friends at a snail’s pace?” She glowered, sweat running down her forehead. Her enchanted throat was dry with fatigue.

“Time for that later,” said Greene. “We’re still some ways out from any treeline thick enough to hide what we’re looking for.” Barry walked up to her and turned her around, his hand directing her chin to a specific angle. Bear, too busy swatting at a butterfly on his nose, missed his normal cue to murder specific angle chin grabbers.

“If that is so, Greene, then what is that?” Through a narrow gap between two trees just ahead of where Bunting had been about to tell some very important things to Aria, in a clearing far too visible from where thousands must have tread in recent months, was an unmistakably Engwithan temple. “Then what is that?” he repeated in slow boastful victory, his smirk playing the role of a skilled background dancer. He scoffed and left her in a frustrated grimace. “Come on, Aria! I’ll show you around!”


	6. Act 1 Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang struggles to appreciate a ruin that shouldn't exist. Ungrateful, really.

Act 1 Chapter 6

Keff stood in the center of the temple, rooting through her pack of innovative implements. Most of the others were ransacking the room at an impolite volume, the sound of displaced artifacts clattering with their investigation. Bear was wearing an upturned bowl as a hat. Keff took out a copper-girded adra-infused cylinder that Brick had once tried to use as a salt shaker. It was glowing far beyond her understanding of its capacity to glow. She presented it to Bunting, who was entirely transfixed by the ceiling. Light made timid entrances through various gaps in its ancient architecture, but they had descended too many levels for the sun to fully illuminate Bunting’s line of sight.

“We’re in the right place,” she said. He neglected to face her. For a moment, it was unclear that he was even listening.

“You could have left that at the castle,” he said. Keff realized he was not looking through the darkness, but rather at something in it. He wore the face she had last seen when he had encountered the adra catastrophe at her room in Caed Nua. The salt cylinder glowed even more unrealistically luminescent. He pushed it down out of her outreached hands without adjusting his gaze, using his other hand to indicate pointlessly at what she couldn’t see. “They’re so packed in that they can hardly move.”

Keff left Bunting to his bewitched soul-staring and sought out a quiet corner. For the last month, two impossibilities had been circling each other in her mind in a deadly mental dance. The less troubling idea was that, for millennia, no one had been unable to detect a soul-shredding adra machine of unprecedented power. It had simply stood unmolested, firing out burnt souls without restraint. That was decently palatable, right? That everyone in Eora, including herself, was a dull-brained fool unable to register the existence of their own hands and feet in front of them?

The other explanation, which she had done her best to push to the edges of her mind, was becoming harder and harder to ignore, perhaps because she was standing in a building in a clearing that had been marked as an empty glade by every map, guide, and sleep-deprived cave druid in the Dyrwood. Even now, Greene was tapping on the walls, not entirely convinced they were real. She seemed like she was halfway to having similar doubts about herself. Keff felt a tinge of sympathy for the wood elf. She might be a directionless loudmouth, but Greene deserved some respect for her understanding of things she could see, places she had been. Unfortunately, the visible world that Greene knew so well was having its rules disregarded by the whims of the unseen.

“Ah ha!” It was Barry, pulling aside the last few pieces of debris above a hidden trapdoor. “A full tour, just like I promised, this way!” He swung it open and jumped through, sight unseen, immediately concealed by the lack of light in whatever realm awaited below. The rest of the party gathered around the impenetrably dark void. Aria and Bear tilted their heads in unison.

“Barry!” said Keff. This was not their first dive into a long lost dungeon, but she had never grown to appreciate his cavalier approach to unknown places. He had a habit of accidentally triggering hidden murder traps that only he had a clear chance to outrun.

“A torch!” came Barry’s voice from below. “Throw down a torch!” Keff motioned to Brick to hand her a torch. Brick darted his eyes toward Bunting, who nudged Greene. Greene slid a smile toward Aria, who patted Bear on the head in confusion. The silence lingered.

“Outstanding foresight, Bunting. Grab one from the Beauts,” said Barry. Greene nodded and walked toward the door. They had been through quite a few entrance halls and crumbling stairways already, so any chance to step outside this surreal apparition was quite welcome. Bear scampered after her, turning back to make sure Aria was following, leaving just Bunting, Brick, and Keff in the upper level. The silence returned, settling around them in a dry lull before being interrupted by its greatest enemy.

“A shining moment of brilliant heroism. I can see why you’re so popular with the local aristocracy,” Barry said. “You never fail to imp-” His voice cut off abruptly. Brick’s hand flew to his sword.

“Barry!” Brick shouted. “Barry!” Nothing. “Bunting, can you see anything?” Bunting’s ability to see the souls of the dead was due to an unbelievable series of events, but his power to feel and manipulate the souls of the living was innate.

“There’s too much soul matter in here. I can’t even sense us,” said Bunting. “We’ll have to wait until Greene gets back.” Keff shook her head.

“There’s no time. We’ll have to use this” she said. The cylinder was bright but it did not seem like it would project a useful range of visibility. She lowered herself beneath the trapdoor before Bunting and Brick could raise this objection.

“Keff!” said Brick. She landed in a well-executed crouch, raising the glowstick as she returned to a normal stance. Brick sighed and jumped in after her. He looked back up at Bunting. “Come on!”

“This is not within my vast comprehension of acrobatics,” said Bunting. “Look for Barry!”

“I’ll catch you,” Brick insisted.

“Not interested.”

“Bunting!” he said with impatient ferocity. Bunting was unaccustomed to Brick speaking to him in this way. It was just one word, but that was Brick for you. The man said multitudes in just a few syllables. Of course, sometimes he said nothing in many stuttered, uncertain, and mispronounced syllables. We all have off days. Flustered regardless, Bunting began to imitate Keff’s delicate descent into the basement.

Something passed rapidly behind Brick’s neck, disappearing far before he could have whirled in its direction, so instead, he made the executive decision to flinch.

“No time!” he roared. “Drop!” Brick picked Bunting out of the air as he fell, setting him on his feet in one motion. Bunting drew his pistol, feeling very small.

“Watch out!” Brick’s sword connected with a skeletal hand right before it could grasp Keff’s face. His shield quickly buffeted a bony torso that was ostensibly connected to the hand. More torsos with hands, arms, and even legs emerged, challenging Brick’s ability to multitask. Bunting fired, catching a foe in the embarrassing situation of not being bulletproof. A shadowy fist slammed into Keff’s back, knocking her to the floor. Brick caught the shade’s second blow with his shield, but many more emerged, swarming into him. Bunting struggled to reload. A ghoulish gul clawed the gun out his hands. Tapping into his skill in spiritual manipulation, Bunting directed malcontented force into the gul’s decayed soul, causing it to turn about-face and tackle the gul behind it. Bunting turned to his friends.

Brick was sinking beneath a pile of enemies, both solid and ethereal. Keff’s larynx barely touched the beginning of a spell before a walking skeleton began to strangle her with one hand and throttle her with another, each blow tearing away her resting stoic expression. Bunting’s pistol was just out of reach. He pushed past the battling guls as he dove toward it. Unpracticed pampered lordly tendons betrayed him and he landed well short, letting out a cry of pain as a sharp sensation tore through the bottom of his boot and raked the underside of his sole. He looked back to see a skeleton raising its blade for another slash, but he was soon robbed of that pleasant view when a rotting foot kicked him in the head

“Bunting!” Brick shouted, barely catching a glimpse of the action through the bodies crushing him into the ground. He lost the battle for ownership of his sword, despite having paperwork that stated otherwise, and was only compensated for this loss with a flurry of gul-fist blows to his breastplate. Keff, gasping for air, used the last of her strength to launch her adra device into the air, her fingers flipping a switch on its side as it left her hand. Brick considered this an odd time to add seasoning. It exploded.

The condensed adra rippled outward instantaneously, tearing at the monsters and heroes alike, flinging them like dolls into nearby walls and pillars. Bunting noticed a decapitated gul head hitting stone in close synchronicity with its formerly associated body, which put an idea about physics almost to the tip of his tongue before he too was slammed earthward.

Brick, being the heaviest, only traveled a few short feet, but enjoyed a renewal of his personal space as his previous annoyances involuntarily went elsewhere. It occurred to him that now that their light source was in countless shards across the room, he shouldn’t have been able to appreciate this visual. But light remained. It was soon joined by the unmistakable scent of advanced death, licensed and accredited.

From beyond the piles of defeated creatures, a fampyr strode forth, spotlighted by adra-coated walls now powered like sconces by Keff’s explosive intervention. Brick groaned. They had fought fampyrs before and it had never went well. Sometimes these unnaturally long-lived undead were just lucky beneficiaries of life-enhancing magic, but most of the time they were self-important self-starters, smug in their engineered immortality. Passive immortality, anyway. Brick had primary evidence that they expired with a proper regime of being stabbed to death just like anyone else. He pulled himself to his feet and rushed the cocky soul sucker.

“Wait!” Keff had just lifted herself to a knee when Brick charged. Fampyr magic, much like Bunting’s, worked best on the unintelligent and insecure, so Brick had no chance of felling the thing without assistance. But desperation had blunted his renowned discernment. The unruffled fampyr dazed Brick with a noncommittal whisper. Then it drew a quarterstaff of untraceable design and reacquainted the stunned aumaua with the ground. Keff was almost to her feet. The menace turned his weapon toward her, faster than she could prepare for the assault. She stared in horror. This was her other explanation, the one she had not let herself accept: that although Thaos was dead, Engwith was not. She had not detected the machine, no one had been able to detect the machine, because only recently someone of unstoppable power, somewhere untraceable by any means, unconnected and unhindered by both Thaos’s plan and his downfall, had just turned the impossible creation on. A gunshot rang out.

From his crumpled reclination against a far wall, Bunting had produced a second pistol from the depths of his jacket and let off a routinely accurate one-in-a-hundred shot, stamped and sealed for express delivery to the space between the fampyr’s eyes. Only Greene could have also nailed a precision challenge of that difficulty. The way the smoke from the pistol billowed upward in slow motion really accented the performance. Shit was cash. Alas, this particular fampyr had outdueled marksmen of far greater acclaim. All in the same second, a bolt of necrotic energy emerged from the ageless one’s putrid fingernails, intercepting the bullet and tracing its trajectory backward straight to Bunting’s beaten body. The blast of magic plowed the orlan into the intersection of the walls and the floor and then he was still. Uninterrupted, the ancient quarterstaff caught Keff in the shoulder, pairing her bruises with broken bones as she staggered back. Her muscles betrayed her with fatigue.

“Trespassing is pink. Tree sap is defeated. The world will flour,” said the fampyr in Engwithan, or so Keff thought. Bunting was far more fluent in the language even when her head wasn’t throbbing. The Engwithan remnant raised the staff once more. Keff glared and grimaced in morbid anticipation. Down came the strike.

“Eat shit!” From nowhere, a red blur speared the fampyr to the floor. It was Barry, and he was far too drenched in his own blood to be alive. No one had told Barry this. He tore into his prey with small blades produced from pockets Keff was pretty sure were not standard on any tailored clothing. Barry pressed his advantage further, making sure to shiv every inch of corrupted flesh. A shock of fampyric sorcery caught him in the forehead, but he shrugged it off. Engwithan insults (or recipes, Keff couldn’t be sure) rang out as Barry continued.

Suddenly feeling a wet sensation beneath her feet, Keff looked down to see a dark stream flowing from a pool of blood beneath Brick. She began to limp over to him when an errant spell caught her in the leg, flattening her, ripping through her armor, and introducing more bleeding for the gang to be concerned about. Bunting showed no signs of consciousness from his scorch-marked corner.

Barry was about to discover the limits of undead pain tolerance when the fampyr rose from the ground, knives still wedged in its neck. Barry continued to stab as he was lifted off the ground, like a mountaineer desperately applying his ice picks during an avalanche. The Engwithan, severely wounded, slowly used its arcane-charged might to separate Barry from stabbing distance, indirectly extracting the blades from its decrepit frame as the knives moved away in cohesion with the orlan’s grip. Then it began to squeeze Barry’s sides, his ribs bending against the pressure. Barry screamed. It was from the agony, if that was unclear. The fampyr’s grin, a villainous foil to Barry’s inactive smirk, offset haunting gloating eyes as it flexed its wrists one more time to reduce Barry into his disparate ingredients. A cold laugh from a long-lost century emitted in a dominant refrain. Then one of those torturing wrists fell to the floor. Brick had slashed it off. The other wrist froze in surprise, dropping Barry to the floor.

“Please, laugh more,” came from Brick’s undeterred throat. He was barely standing. The fampyr swung its empty remaining hand.

Keff rose to her feet, pulling the hammer of a dead god off her back.

Barry moaned, clutching his battered organs.

Being raised as a messianic ruler of prophecy might have taught her how to be a hero.

Brick held on for another second, tanking the amputee’s attack.

Throwing that life away to save her loved ones might have taught her how to be part of a family.

The fampyr lunged to throw Brick off of his terminal balance.

But traveling with Bunting’s party-sure it had taught her how to protect the innocent-

Brick gripped his shield weakly, clearly unconfident that he could withstand more.

-but from the very start-

Brick’s sharp auamaua teeth bore one last flash of defiance.

-Bunting’s party had taught her how to fight. She unleashed the soul-forged hammer in unhinged discipline and swung.


	7. Act 1 Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mondays, am I right?

  
Act 1 Ch 7

It was the principle of the thing, Greene decided. She trudged dutifully through the ancient temple, taking her time with the assorted steps, galleries, and antechambers as they flowed past her. She had intended to nip up to the surface to grab the torch for Barry in a jiffy, but the route back seemed much longer and more confusing than the way in. Greene’s natural pathfinding ability was so good that she was at an utter loss when she was actually utterly lost. It wasn’t fair, this winding tomb that should not have winded up where it lay. The impossibility of its permanence weighed on her. Perhaps that was why she couldn’t seem to tell one floor from another. There was just no navigating a place that shouldn’t be.

The principle in question was that of proper preparation. Greene had long suffered as the party’s lone survival planner, enough to where she had sworn off the role, defiantly warning to all wise enough to listen that she would no longer buffer their continued disorganization. Of course, much like a parent unwilling to deny their disowned child a spot at the table during the holidays, she had been unable to extricate herself from the responsibilities of her discarded position. So even though she had made it clear she was not officially in charge of remembering to bring tentpoles, camping supplies, and, most importantly, torches, they all knew she would do it anyway. Except for this time she had not done so, yet they still seemed slightly peeved at her, as if she had especially promised them a bouquet of flammable branches with all of their names embroidered in charcoal stitching.

Well, she was no seamstress, flame-broiled or otherwise. Just because she had flawlessly carried them through their patheticness in the past didn’t mean she was obligated to do so forever. Her favorite burden chirped a few paces behind.

“Are we going the right way, Greene? I think I’d remember Bear trying to make it down these stairs,” said Aria, her eyes examining the untread room before them.

“The way does not have to be familiar to be right,” said Greene, suddenly sounding a lot like Brick when he was in mixed company. Her two least favorite things in the world were being wrong, and being wrong in front of her tiny companion. Ever since she had saved Aria from a lifetime of rural drudgery, she had enjoyed a certain amount of hero-worship from her, which had quickly turned into a dependency. It had all seemed so simple when she had first stumbled into Aria’s disconnected corner of the world, ready to cause some light mischief with Bear before wandering off. Never once in her initial teasing of the yokel villagers of Aria’s birthplace had she expected one of them to respond only with unironic kindness. And yet Aria had, and Aria had also been a hell of a natural at combat, some out-of-character side effect of being brought up in a place with fear as a religion, motto, and nutritional staple. These two qualities had swirled into a savory personable bisque, at least according to Greene’s palette, and so she had simply been compelled to insist on taking the unworldly orlan along, if only by the demands of good taste, at least until she could figure out how such a person could exist in the first place.

Those deliberations were still in progress now, years later, but Greene was growing concerned that Aria was getting a better figuring of who Greene just might, or might not, be. It was those damn feral suitors. It was their fault Aria was becoming more and more cognizant of the idea that imperfection might have once, even twice, glanced Greene’s way. Bunting with his snobbish pretensions of superhuman valor: despicable. He wanted to have his disgusting fur-coated cake and eat it too, both projecting to Aria an air of supremely mature nobility while still saving himself room as a closely-aged match. He might think he could hide his years in a cloak of ambiguity, but Greene knew Bunting’s country-bred strand of orlans. They were consistently thick-haired from cradle to croak.

And Barry wasn’t much better. Sure, he had the decency to not be a snooty limp wrist, but he was still guilty of taking himself far too seriously. Greene may have wanted Keff to have to sow manure and toil the pigs, or whatever it was that the domesticated did with their time, but overthrowing Bunting and seizing the castle was all a little melodramatic, no? It was quite fine to poke holes in authority but tearing it down completely usually meant having to take on the job yourself. And if anything was antithetical to the pursuit of happiness, it was labor.

Perhaps what disturbed Greene most of all about Aria’s male kin and their detestable lascivious schemes was their complete lack of detestable lasciviousness. Sure, Barry was reliably detestable, and Bunting was no doubt always good for a perversely charitable scheme, but the two never spoke a single phrase that could have been read two ways to the girl. Sometimes it felt like they weren’t even interested in Aria’s existence, much less her presence. And it was that level of affected ignorance that let Greene know just how vilely attracted they must have been.

If these verdicts were coming across as a little too verbose for your understanding of Greene, you’ve detected the cultural translation. Greene’s actual thoughts were a little lighter on diction and a little heavier on epithets, but it would be needlessly confusing to relay her ruminations word-for-word unless you were interested in nine different obscure elven analogs for “shitcuck.”

The hallway turned into a dead-end, although arguably it had always been a dead end and hadn’t just turned that way now. Greene was undeterred. This wasn’t a dead dead-end like you’d find at the base of a sadistic multi-level deathtrap, no, this was the type of dead-end she’d seen Bunting quickly diagnose a thousand times before. She slid her fingers along the cold stone of the walls, indicating to Aria to do the same. Surprisingly, and maybe distressingly, Aria seemed to catch on immediately, both of them racing to find the hidden switch or button. Greene won, only lightly touching an out-of-place indentation before the sound of grinding rock heralded the exposure of a stairway heading to the surface. Dungeon architecting was a timeless profession but not an impressively innovative one.

A decent shove was all that was needed to dislodge a weak set of stones in the ceiling of the chamber, revealing sunlight above. Greene gave it a few more shoves anyway to make an opening large enough for Bear. She turned around to pull Aria up to the surface. Bear did not help. (He was a bear).

They were not too far from where they had entered the mysterious temple. There was a Beaut stationed so close that yelling at him would have been slower than just giving him a decent shove of his own. Greene extended a calloused hand to get the soldier’s attention, but it was no use. This was partially because he did not have a torch on him, and partially because he was dead.

Not long dead, mind you, just in the last few seconds. The corpse slipped away as a second arrow notched itself in the tree the man had been leaning on. A flurry followed, all with perfect accuracy, only failing because what they had aimed at was no longer there.

Greene, bow drawn, was already returning fire from three trees away, unable to see her targets through the dense treeline, but she had long since ascended beyond the need for anything besides a blind shot. She had not deigned to spread education in this regard, however, and her allies were suffering for it. Beauts were discovering new piercings in their throats and eyes as the ambush erupted from indiscernible angles. Aria dove beyond an orlan-accomodating log and peeked out to try to glimpse who was spoiling their swell afternoon adra picnic. The bushes behind her rumbled and a deployment of Dyrwoodan foot soldiers emerged in battle-ready attire. To Aria, this definitely qualified as a double-axe situation.

Greene registered the flankers and spun to her right to put them down, only to be pleasantly surprised that Aria had already deprived them of their facial symmetry. Axes akimbo, Aria let out a murderous shout and began to down oncoming attackers in an unbridled frenzy. Bear was a bear and therefore had no moral reservations about separating some swordsmen into untidy segmentations, which he then demonstrated with great rancor.

Another group emerged to Greene’s left. Arrow. Nock. Loose. Arrow. There was no longer a group to Greene’s left. But more were moving in from the front, and these men were a little more invested in avoiding punctures. Greene found herself stepping further and further back as they pressed forward behind relative tree cover. Back and further away from Aria, who was now assailed on all sides like she was the center of an unusually vindictive dance circle. A detachment of Beauts, more than Greene had even thought had come along that day, stormed the creeping assailants’ position and for once she was thankful for Barry’s obsession with ostentatious exhibitions.

The air was thick with raw scents and furious shouting now, with most of the latter coming from Aria. An encroaching swipe more meant to make her flinch than bleed was met with a deadly reprisal when Aria simply refused to flinch, as it had never occurred to her. Her circle of foes became more and more apprehensive as she ducked and weaved through their foolproof entrapment, reducing some of their colleagues to paste. She was close to beating them out of formation. Bear chewed a dude.

“Idiots!” Greene roared. “Idiots can’t even win a fight they started!” The Beauts roared in approval, still in melee with footmen belonging to some nearby baron or other. Aria made another sweeping slice and the enemy broke, leaving their wounded to Greene’s mercy as they fled into nearby clearings and not-so-clearings. Bear was still chewing a dude.

Not bad, thought Greene. She thought briefly back to Keff at the bottom of the ruin. Probably pacing up and down like a pampered princess. She couldn’t wait for her to complain about Greene taking her time coming back with the torches. Go ahead, tell me I’m endangering the expedition. Saved your weird ass.

It occurred to Greene that she did not know who she had saved Keff’s weird ass from. She leaned out so she could see where the enemy was fleeing to, and the image made her freeze. They were running alright, but they were running toward a larger, heavily armored host. The clearings contained multiple heraldries, mounted nobles, and rows and rows of archers. An entire army had been stalking them for hours and she hadn’t noticed. She hadn’t noticed at all. This wasn’t fair. Preparing for this wasn’t supposed to be her job. She had told them that. She had told them that and they hadn’t listened. Shit. Keff was going to love this. Keff could die today and still love this.

The runners had only barely reached their lines before they were replenished with a group twice their size and came running back toward the temple, charging, screaming, blood-fueled. And that was just from the direction Greene could see.

Aria’s contenders returned from the back with new gusto, cleverly bringing a larger squad with longer weapons to remake the dance circle. The strategy was predictable but not stale. She tried to parry a series of blows but a line of spears kept her from chaining that into a further advantage. Instead, her space to maneuver got smaller and smaller as the spears advanced.

Nock. Loose. Arrow. Greene finished off another, but the Beauts were having their bodies prepped for man-sized needle-and-threading. Her eyes began to dart around rapidly. She detected Aria’s escalating dilemma and turned to nock when an arrow hit her in the thigh. She looked down and took another in the shoulder. Her breathing got heavier and she shuddered as she gripped her war bow. Bear was coming to Aria’s defense. She definitely needed the support. Greene looked up and saw a cascade of arrows decorate a few Beauts. They would not be able to hold much longer. The arrows were lodged tight. Greene staggered back. Aria was almost out of room. Greene saw another Beaut unwillingly donate his body to the forest ecosystem. Bear took down one man from the back. The sounds of battle became louder and closer. Two. Aria disemboweled a threat but lost an axe in the process. Three. An arrow narrowly missed Greene’s face. Four. She tried to aim but she choked, she couldn’t fire, she couldn’t do it. Fiv-

“Bear!” Greene shouted. Bear was a bear but he was her bear and he knew what “Bear!” meant. He fired off in her direction, pausing only for her to collapse on his back before he took off, trampling downed combatants without a second thought (or a first). Through a fleeting opening in the proceedings, Greene watched Aria watch her leave as Bear sprinted back into the Engwithan temple.

“


	8. Act 1 Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The temple is not as it seems. Fire the HypeCannons.

  
  
  
Act 1 Ch 8

Bunting opened his eyes. The fact he was able to do so felt promising. His arms and legs warned him to not bet on such optimism from them. His toes rebelled against this negativity and wiggled with staunch enthusiasm. He stared at their approximate position through his boots for a moment before realizing he was being stared at himself. Brick was peering down at him from a beaten limp, one hand on his blood-stained side where armor had given way to the fampyr’s blows. Keff was standing next to him, her shoulder on holiday a few inches away from where it normally rested. The arm it was connected to didn’t look too lively, either. And then there was Barry or a very red orlan silhouette that was most likely Barry. The way they were looking at him seemed to suggest they were not expecting him to be able to look back.

“I suppose we owe Eothas a fruit basket,” Barry quipped. “Or maybe you’re just too insufferable for Berath.”

“I can’t believe that worked!” said Brick, looking at something to Bunting’s right. Bunting craned his neck to find a pile of empty potion flasks, burnt-out magical rings, and various other enchanted accouterments in a sterile smoking heap.

“A single vial would have done the trick,” grumbled Bunting.

“It did not,” said Keff. “And neither did the second... or the third.”

“I’m not sure if the other potions we had did anything either,” said Brick. “But you’ll be very resistant to fire, xaurip poison, and itchy fabric for the next hour.”

“And the wardrobe?” asked Bunting, pointing to the scorched robes and drained jewelry.

“Same idea. The don’t-die juice wasn’t waking you up, so we tried a bit of fashion. Hood of ice resistance here, bracelet of farsight there. Figured it might all add up to something.” said Barry. “My idea, naturally. Couldn’t risk you getting seen at your funeral bloated full of wasted elixir.”

“I suppose at the very least I would have become a very resilient corpse,” muttered Bunting. For a second, he regretted his bitterness, realizing he should have been celebrating Barry’s cooperation. For all his troublemaking, Barry was still fighting by their side. He was still their friend, at the end of the day still earnestly concerned with- and nope, nope, never mind, there it was: Barry’s smirk had arrived and was making itself at home on its owner’s temporarily scarlet face. Bunting sighed and offered up a conciliatory thank you. Barry bowed, being able to enjoy a petty victory when half-dead the way only Barry could. “I assume the angry warped soul glaring in the corner is our- was our friend?”

“It’s dead if that’s what you mean. A second time, I suppose.” Brick shrugged, wincing all the way up and all the way down. “Didn’t know it’d stick around to watch.”

“The fampyr has not found its way to the Wheel?” asked Keff, her worried hand failing to muster the strength for an expedition to her weapon on her back. “It was already long overdue.” Bunting grunted and rose to his feet, which had given in to his toes’ persistent diplomacy.

“It knows the way,” he said. “It’s just stalling.” Bunting gestured pointlessly at the dark soul that only appeared in his vision. His fingers filed an internal letter of protest. Then he said and realized something at the same time, something that meant something that didn’t reveal itself quite yet, but instead hid a seed of a question in his mind that began to grow slowly, undetected. It was “I believe it has a few words for me.” He dragged his infighting body over to where the fampyr had drawn its last undead breath. From the looks of it, Keff had given it the full Thaos treatment. Impressive. The fampyr’s soul did not seem as amused.

“You’ve driven the world into the world,” it said. Damn it, Either Bunting’s Engwithan was rusty (it was) or the fampyr was possessed of a lesser-studied dialect. “The other world is not for others.” Bunting scratched his head. “You’ve driven the world into the world,” it repeated.

“What are you fishing about?” Bunting said in his slightly rusty (very rusty) Engwithan.

“Thaos ix Arkannon.”

“Old news, I’m a fish,” said Bunting, feeling very shaky on proper conjugation. “Had to die. Friend of yours?”

“Thaos ix Arkannon. The lock.”

“Do you mean the key? The Leaden Key? Thaos was in a fish, a fish called the Leaden Key.” If souls could have frustrated expressions, this one would have had a face rivaling Barry’s for redness.

“Thaos. The lock. The lock is gone. The lock is fish. The world is small. The world is next to the world. Fish.” Bunting was at a loss. While the Engwithans were ancient and their language did have a few unnecessarily grandiose indulgences, they were never indecipherable. This one seemed different, like it had grown up in some backwater where they insisted on everyone using their local terms for very common dishes.

“Is it funny?” said Barry. Keff glared at him. “Think you’d have to have a sense of humor, living locked up in a place like this.” Keff glared at him slightly less. Barry was not wrong. Guls and shades could mindlessly bump into each other inside a sealed tomb for centuries, but fampyrs were intelligent. It could not have simply just stood still since the fall of Engwith. She began to scan the room for some evidence of life, or whatever passed for life for bored fampyrs. It was her first calm look at the room since they had arrived, having been too preoccupied with stuffing Bunting full of magic liquid to take in her surroundings. “Although, Keff, you’ve gotten along just fine without one,” Barry continued. The glaring shot back to full throttle.

“I don’t understand,” said Bunting. “What is this place? Where did it come from? Why now?” The soul furrowed its brow, which was remarkable considering it had neither a brow nor the capacity to furrow. A door no one had noticed open loudly behind them, revealing a dark passageway that almost certainly sloped down. When Bunting turned back to look at the soul, it was gone.

“Well, after you!” said Barry in a voice that indicated he was more than willing to go in first.

“We’re hardly in any shape to fight whatever is through there,” said Brick.

“We’re hardly in any shape to come back the way we came,” said Barry. They all looked at the trapdoor in the ceiling, which was out of reach for Brick and out of climbing distance for Barry, or at least for this blood-lite version of Barry. “I’ll go through and scout ahead.”

“Brick is right,” said Keff, stunning herself with her own words. “Stand on his shoulders. He’ll push you through the top.”

“Bunting’s just as light. I’ll find you tall folk a way out through there,” said Barry, gesturing at the ominous doorway. “And he can go find Greene.” They all paused. Where was Greene? And Aria? They should have been back by now.

“He’s too weak to walk far. You’ll go,” said Keff.

“He’s too weak to run Caed Nua, but you don’t seem to-”

“I am not interested in arguing with you about-”

“Neither am I. I’m more interested in seeing what that fampyr was protecting.”

“You’ll go.”

“I’m not your manservant. I’m just as much a part of this as you.” Though they were not directed at him, Barry’s words snuck into Brick’s brain all the same, torturing and teasing him with their uncomfortable relatability.

“Go.” Keff’s inimitable ‘go’ was strongly reminiscent of her ‘hello’ from months prior. Barry grimaced. Trying to be helpful, Brick cringed in pain as he politely beckoned for Barry to climb onto his back. Sweet agony did Barry hate losing.

“Alright,” said Barry in a way that was strongly reminiscent of a time he had stabbed a bandit in the eye with the bandit’s other pre-stabbed eye. Brick groaned as he helped Barry reach the apex of his frame. With a sweat-summoning shove, he launched Barry up through the gap, falling on his ass as his endurance faltered. Above, the sound of Barry landing expertly on his face signaled that he had made it. It was soon accompanied by the universally-recognizable jingle of grumbling and stomping off in anger. Satisfied, Keff turned back to ask Bunting what the soul had told him. He was gone. Brick spat blood out of his mouth, unaware.

“Wait!” Crimson glove tenderly supporting her disconnected shoulder, Keff took off after Bunting through the dark entrance. Befuddled, Brick fell onto his back, coughing and wheezing, and then slowly passed out.

Bunting had not made it far. He limped slowly down a set of winding stairs, his thighs demanding a recount of the election that had sent them this way. The spiral turns were so tight that almost every step felt like a venture around a blind corner.

“You cannot go further,” said Keff, catching up to him. He shook his head, doing his best to continue his determined stumbling.

“It knew.”

“Knew what?”

“Knew I was a Watcher. Most times a soul can figure it out when I start talking to it, or from how I look at it, or some other way a soul learns when it’s lingered long enough. This one knew before it died. Knew while I was out. It waited. Knew I would wake up. Knew I would be able to see it.”

“You did not mention that before.”

“Didn’t want to give Barry another reason to stay.”

“You should not be staying, either. We need to go back.”

“We need to find out what’s happening here.” Each word was a little hoarser, a little harder.

“This is a poor time to start taking your responsibilities as protector of the realm seriously.”

“We didn’t come all this way to turn around.”

“We did not come all this way to die!”

“You’re just as curious as I am. You wouldn’t have come otherwise.”

“We can come back when your life is not slipping out of your lungs, Bunting. The temple will still be here!”

“Will it?” he said, finally turning to face her, his stride paused for a second of silent wrath. Keff paused. There was a look in his eyes that she had not seen in months, maybe a year. This was original Bunting, determined Bunting, the Bunting that had cared about saving the Dyrwood, the Bunting that had wrangled Barry into selfless vengeance against Thaos. Whatever intuition the fampyr had stirred inside him had cured him of his passive slothfulness, at least for now. Just like the Hollowborn Crisis, he was saying this was mine, this was my responsibility, this was my mystery to solve. To be honest, most of this exuberant revelation was Bunting mentally complimenting himself, but Keff got the gist of it. She could see the melodrama in his eyes.

“You think the fampyr knew you would come here?” she said.

“No,” said Bunting, resuming his struggle downward. “I think it could just… see.”

“You think it is-was like you? A cipher, a mind hunter?” asked Keff, referring to Bunting’s magical ability to manipulate and read the souls of the living. There was a lot of overlap between being a cipher and a Watcher, as far as she could tell. Souls and soul manipulation and mind-reading and haunting dreams. Watchers were a lot rarer, though, and Watcher-cipher hybrids even more so, meaning there was not much known about what the synergy of those two things could produce. She was not even sure that Bunting knew the full extent of the mixture’s potential. Truly, anyone forced to write about it would only become increasingly more confused themselves, inevitably creating some poor explanations and contradictory ambiguities about the whole thing. Bunting shook his head.

“It wasn’t. It wasn’t magic. It was-” They had reached a landing that marked the end of the winding narrow passage’s winding narrowness. In front of them was a much wider, clearer view of where the stairs led ahead. They were positioned halfway up a vast cavern, much larger than any of the chambers above. It was heavily populated by adra: broken, whole, manufactured, harvested, grown, destroyed, revived, lathered, buttered, and manipulated in every other possible way, all connected to a gigantic circular table in the center of the room. And above that table, were-

“Souls,” said Bunting. Quickly remembering his gift, he clarified. “There’s-”

“Millions,” said Keff in a momentary trance. He looked at her. “I can… I can see them.” And she could. As could have any nonblind denizen of Eora, and most likely a few of the blind ones as well. The adra coating the table was split wide open, brimming with soul fragments like a mind-blowing pastry revealing reality-defying meringue. And from that delicious metaphysical confectionary emitted an impossibly rapid torrent of careening souls moving at outrageous speeds in a dense and erratic chaos that could only be described as a soul storm, a-.

“A biawac,” said Bunting. Biawacs were natural hazards of the Dyrwood, spirit winds that would tear out your soul and leave nothing behind - if you were lucky. They were also visible, giving non-Watchers a rare opportunity to see what souls looked like, if only for a moment before those giddy non-Watchers were torn away into worthless dust. Bunting, having survived a biawac in his past, was thus one of the very few people to ever live long enough to witness two.

And yet it was nothing like his first experience. That had just been a terrifying series of winds mercilessly crackling with soul lightning. Not so bad in retrospect. It had been dangerous, sure, but it had been dangerous with a specifically defined set of borders. That biawac had been finite, transparent, and brief. A real biawac’s biawac. He had been able to dodge it, outrun it. The soul storm in front of him, although thankfully nowhere near as lethal, was inescapable. The entire cavern was dense with the rush of souls, an opaque hurricane of light and sound originating from every angle and corner. It had no duration, no end, and strangely, no breeze that affected the living. An all-encompassing landscape of uninvented colors and textures surged and boomed before them. It deserved music, an accompaniment, a goddamn orchestra. It wouldn’t kill you, but if this experience didn’t floor you, didn’t tickle your passion for life and wonder in all the right places, you might as well have called for your coffin anyway, because you were dead.

“I’ve never seen one before,” said Keff in uncharacteristic awe. “Is this what Brighthollow looked like?” No, this is not what Brighthollow had looked like. This is not what the other parts of the temple had looked like. Those had been almost quaint in comparison, a simple river of damaged souls roaring through space and time, mere invisible collections of spirits. Here, this, this was, this was-

“Unlike anything anyone’s ever seen,” said Bunting, completely unqualified to make that statement. “Biawacs tear souls into blights, formless, shapeless, uh, elemental. This is, I can see them. I can see each of them.” And he could. These were still mortal-shaped objects, human, elf, dwarf, orlan, aumaua, albeit ripped and beheaded and dissected in different places. And, unlike the lifeless fragments from before, they were vibrant, mouths opened in imperceivable screams as they soared in patternless fury. Someone should really have been playing some music. “It would have killed us already if it wanted to. Come on.”

They followed the stairs to where they met the ground, the storm neither rejecting nor beckoning their incursion, their eyes alight with curiosity as it engulfed them. Keff noticed a workspace of sorts had been set up around the strange table. The notes and charts scattered throughout reminded her of her lab. She picked up a journal marked with noticeably deranged handwriting.

“What does it say? My written Engwithan is not well-polished,” said Bunting. The question was thankfully self-evident, as his words were swept away by the storm.

“It seems to be a long list of ways Thaos is-was- a… lobster,” said Keff. She went unheard. The font was archaic and adorned with serifs, vowels, and punctuation that had not been seen by anyone born in the last eight thousand years. She struggled to follow the work, which would veer off into the margins with what seemed to be ranting tangents after every other line. The consistent element was Thaos’s name, and its relation to opening, or locking, or hiding. Or salmon. “It is a full history of all his reincarnations. They were watching him for thousands of years. They knew how to find him, where he would go next, how he would remember his past lives each time…” Keff was reading faster than she could orate. It was detailed, meticulous, occasionally nautical. The whole thing was a little creepy, to be honest. There were even a few insults comparing Thaos to rotten trout that she felt she had translated appropriately. “They hated him,” she realized, taking a second to process her own words. “They were waiting for him to die, die permanently.” She turned to the last page and discovered an accurate portrait of Bunting… and her. It was captioned with disturbingly detailed notes. “Bunting, look at-

Even if he could have heard her, the Watcher’s attention was held hostage by the furniture at the center of the storm. The table was mighty and broad, too large for even the largest hall at Caed Nua. The souls spewing out were arranged so densely that all but the borders of the table were obscured. From this angle, it looked like it could have been a hollow stone ring. Bunting felt something bizarrely organized within the smokey soul pyre. The thing about being a cipher, or a Watcher, or anyone else with the gift to feel what was there but not there, was that you were working with more of an art than a science. There were no rules about what was or wasn’t a bad mysterious sensation or a good mysterious sensation. There was no codex of omens explained symbol by symbol. So when Bunting knew definitively that there was something strangely stable hiding amid all this instability, he was either ascending to a new tier of divine awareness or he was just full of shit. This is left as an exercise to the reader.

The same second Keff called his name, Bunting reached his hand out to the billowing storm, unable to resist confirming the nature of his suspicions. Keff’s eyes went wide and she tried to wave her hand to signal “no no no Bunting no sweet agony why” but she was not high up in the speed rankings of the Caed Nua elite even when a good deal of her blood was not carpeting a temple basement, and so Bunting’s touch went unhindered.

As his fingers (who were now firm members of his body’s loyalist party after a historical anatomical purge) connected with the cyclone, a resounding shockwave flashed outward from the center of the vortex. Keff blinked and Bunting had vanished once more.

In the eye of the hurricane, it was quiet, for just a moment. Bunting could now see the table, unobstructed by the lens of souls. It was a topographical map of the known world, with a few glowing spots shining too brightly for comfort. One was the temple, which was pulsing violently. Another lay a few nations north in the Ixamitl Plains. Then the dots vanished and were replaced by others, and the winds around him began to grow faster, and louder, and the map markers shone all the more painfully. There was one for him, one for Keff, one for a shrouded blue face in Ixamitl, it was getting louder now, and then the same face again, but angrier, louder, his ears were beginning to bleed, stronger, wilder, until Bunting realized it was not a map, it was the world, it was the world itself manifest in this storm of souls, and the raging blue face grew larger, more real, the wind now was hurting him, threatening to blow him away, angrier, and closer, until it too became itself in the flesh and erupted out of the table, expanding as it opened its mouth as if to consume the world.


	9. Act 1 Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a bad day to be an orlan

Act 1 Chapter 9

Keff dragged Bunting along, heaving and sort of sobbing along the way. Not entirely sobbing, mind you, just the normal type of tearing up kinda cryin’ sorta sad shit you do when you’ve seen your good friend look pretty dead twice in the span of a few hours. Uh, like you do. Ascending back up the grueling stair situation they had entered from was pretty untenable, given just how badly they had been thrashed, so instead Keff was navigating a new set of confusing tunnels leading away from the soul storm cavern.

Brick may have been a lout and a headcase but at least he was good at shouldering burdens, often physical ones, at times of crises. Keff had been more raised to have others shoulder these concerns, so despite her combat-ready physique, she was struggling to move her armored frame while also tending to Bunting’s deadweight. Speaking of deadweight, Keff was not entirely confident that that term was not extremely literal at the moment. She had only barely been able to displace Bunting from the colossal storm chaos torrent explosion before it had consumed him whole, and the weak pulse she had detected when she first recovered his body had made no promises as to the longevity of its tenure.

The cavern slowly gave way back to more furnished predictable ancient hidden Engwithan deathtrap architecture, so she began to pet the walls for what was obviously there. After a few false positives that only involved revealing treasure chambers of long-obsolete currencies and expired luxury foods and spices, she tripped up an umpteenth trigger that revealed an unremarkable passageway upward. She sighed in relief, and with her probably dead lord slung over her shoulder like a particularly undesirable sack of potatoes, she trudged forth, confident she would arrive at the surface.

Unfortunately, confidence has a well-known bullshit bias. When Keff solved the insultingly easy puzzle that opened up a passage at the peak of her climb, she was not met with sunlight and startled grass. Instead, she found herself tripping forward into the room where Bunting had told her she could have left her adra grenade at home, which at this point felt like a place she had first encountered weeks ago. She let him slide off gracefully into a collection of priceless easily-shatterable urns and collapsed on to her back in exhaustion. 

Bear came hurtling into the room with reckless abandon, although when does a bear ever not do anything with reckless abandon? Greene slid off of his back, tenderly meeting the floor with a solid thwack. She groaned in agony and turned to see Keff doing the same, and groaned once more to indicate her displeasure in sharing the same floor with her. The two battered elves stared at each other, working on dredging up the vitality to communicate.

“You’ve had a good time, haven’t you?” asked Greene. Keff said nothing. “Oh come on, wasn’t gone for that long.” Keff spat out blood, intentionally trying to make sure it did not hit Greene in the face. Greene did not perceive this attempt at courtesy and instead read it as an insult because of course.

“Where is Aria? We need to get out of here and get help. Brick is still down there,” said Keff, paying a heavy toll for every syllable. Greene’s face turned pink and then green and then rather unpleasant.

“...the, the guard, the attack, they’re out there,” she said with her immaculate powers of clear conveyance.

“The what?” asked Keff.

“They were following us. They attacked. We’re outnumbered. We had to... leave.” wheezed Greene.

“Attacked?”

“Human knobs. Overwhelmed all of a sudden.”

“Then where is Aria?” asked Keff. “She can’t hold the entrance by herself.”

“She’s… not at the entrance.”

“Is she on her way? Usually, she’s just as fast as Bear.”

“...no, no, she’s… still out there.” Keff gave Greene the type of look you give when your cousin who promised they’d take care of the 8-hour roast confesses to having dropped it in the toilet just minutes before dinner. This is an unwieldy analogy but your face is an unwieldy analogy.

“Still out there?... Greene, is she alive? What happened?”

“...I don’t know..” 

“How do you not know?”

_________

Barry reached the entrance of the temple. He was not feeling particularly well, what with the plethora of views his innards had of the outside world. He had hoped to find Greene and Aria on his way up and have them help him up the rest of the way, but instead, he had traced his steps back to the surface without meeting another soul, figuratively or otherwise. Figures. Greene had no head for interior navigation. Well, they’d be up here somewhere. Them and the Beauts. They could run down with their torch and grab the others and this whole disaster could be wrapped up before it got worse. Not their best outing but they were all still breathing. Still, plenty of time to cut their losses and live to fight another day. It was all over now. Then Barry caught a glimpse of what was transpiring in the woods, which caused him to birth into the world a curse so abhorrent and specific that no one would speak it again for a thousand years. You would have, too.

The salad blend of thickly forested clumps and open grassy fields surrounding the temple was paired with a light dressing of inescapable flame and agony. Corpses were croutons. Don’t ask what the tomatoes were. Barry’s Beauts were all but defeated, and those who weren’t gone already were being meticulously finished off by soldiers stalking them through the smoke and destruction. Even the extra two divisions he had brought along to bother Brick with their gratuitousness had been depleted. Barry saw a crawling archer die before he reached his bow, passing from this life in a state of being that could only be described as extra crispy. Someone had clearly either thrown a fireball, or tried to deflect a fireball with a fireball, or perhaps tried to stop one by swallowing it.

There was a bizarre formation of enemy corpses on the right flank, just inside where the forest reached out to touch the grounds of the temple. It almost looked like a circle, like they all had been facing inward when they died. Barry didn’t understand. Why would they all have been facing the same way? They wouldn’t have all been able to look at spell or a bomb before it went off. No, it had to be something slower, something that had taken the time to grab all of their attention. But the only thing at the center of the circle was

“Aria!” Barry shouted. He rushed forward, shoving aside the pleading grip of a dying Beaut. “Aria you dumb fool-” -he dodged an encroaching battle axe, then left the wielder in need of dental work, his sword staying behind to floss the man’s molars for all eternity- “-bright-eyed-” -another axe went over his head, shaving the tips of his orlan ears into a sweet fade that was in vogue twenty years prior- “-useless adult child-” -he reached for a hidden blade but he had left his last in the temple, rendering his move worthless. His opponent did a weird semi-flinch, trying to both dodge Barry’s preassumed reaction and take advantage of the fact that no such reaction came. Barry reacted with a weird-quarter flinch, now reacting halfway to the semi-flinch. The whole thing looked like an awkward dance amongst clumsy virgins. 

“He’s here!” yelled the soldier, looking for help but also hoping no one had seen him shake and boogie with the enemy. Barry felt similarly. He dove for a discarded axe and threw it without aiming, killing the witness to his buffoonery as his imprecise attack struck perfectly. For a minute he was lost in a sea of self-flattery, enamored with his marksmanship. Then he remembered.

“Aria!” Barry reached the center of the circle and collapsed to his knees. She was still, her clothes soaked to match his fur. He couldn’t see where the wounds were but it didn’t matter. She was gone. Dauntless Aria of Shitcan Village Nowhere was face up in a pool of everyone’s blood, an atypical look of fear on her face. It didn’t make sense. She wouldn’t have cowered at the end. And distressful magic was very rarely able to sway her morale. Barry had reckoned Aria’s natural magical resistance came down to faith, or rather, the lack thereof. Aria’s people were simply too stubborn to let magic affect them. And yet here she was, frozen dead in horror. Something was off. 

Barry heard footsteps approaching. One of Aria’s unpolished battle axes was beside her; the other in a permanent visitation in a man’s kidneys. He gripped the closer weapon, soul-powered rage and rage-powered soul energy swelling within him, buying him a brief respite from his faltering consciousness. More were coming. He stood. They charged. He swung. They died. They advanced. He swung. They died. More. Swing. More. Punch. Screaming. (His, fury.) Death. Screaming. (Theirs, terror, pain, confusion, cramps). More of them. Smashed to pieces. More of them. He missed one. More of them. He sw-a hammer crunched down on his shoulder. He attempted a haymaker with his off-hand but a spear gored him from behind. The hammer smashed him into the ground. He rolled onto his back, dying, eyes still raging red. His killers stared down at him with battlefield intensity and swung once more. And then there was light.

“


	10. Act 1 Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bear is hungry. Also, other things.

  
Act 1 Chapter 10  
  
Bear was quite confused, which was uncommon for the beast. Normally, things were straightforward. There were fish. He wanted them. Most of the time, however, they did not jump willingly into his mouth. He endeavored daily to rectify this flaw of the universe’s construction. But today had not followed his normal dietary routine. Instead, Greene had led him on a very long journey far from his hunting grounds to a place where he did not know the streams or their whereabouts. Then he had been asked to walk deep into a rather unfamiliar and unsettling place where there could assuredly be nothing edible, which he had not been asked to do in some time. The renewal of this practice reminded him of their adventures many months earlier, where he had been forced to bite quite a few adversaries who lacked the taste or digestibility of fresh-caught salmon. Not a good portent for future meals.

And to make matters worse, they had quickly left the temple as soon as they had arrived, only to be met with an unpleasant array of enemies, none of whom had come salted or precut. Bear had only been able to get a few unsatisfying chunks of mediocre human meat before being requested to save Greene and take her back into the temple once more. And after lugging her into the depths of the ruin, she had laid one of the furry small ones on his back, commanding him to accompany her back up! This exhausting relay was all without the assured compensation of devouring Bunting upon completion of the task. Bleeding to death or not, his soul-bonded elf was not being a particularly accommodating companion. He grunted to show his disdain, and that he was hungry, and also that he was a bear. Rain touched ground outside.

“Shh, Bear, they’re right outside,” said Greene. Another frustration for Bear. Greene and the pale one had been shouting at each other this whole time, but now suddenly he wasn’t allowed to make noise. He promised himself to be mad about this later, but that’s not how bears work. Already the smell of blood was drawing the totality of his attention to his appetite.

His master took no notice of his internal protest, too focused on staying conscious. With Bear’s back being reserved for Bunting’s maybe-corpse, Greene and Keff had had to support each other in an awkwardly hostile side hug as they ascended the subterranean temple for the final time, hopefully. Despite the shit day, though, Greene had to admit that at least the route to the top had been clear this go-around. Following her own blood was a bit of a cheat but shut up. Keff pounded on her own thigh, trying to kickstart self-sustained mobility. It did nothing. The rain continued.

“Have the bear take Bunting and run for Caed Nua. We will have to follow behind,” said Keff. “We will only slow him down.” Bear did not understand what Keff was saying but hey, what else was new?

“Are you crazy?” Greene said. “Without him we’re defenseless.” She was not wrong. Bear was the only one still eligible to leave with all the blood he had brought with him.

“That did not stop you from taking him away from Aria,” Keff snapped.

“We were surrounded, princess,” said Greene, spending an extra few seconds holding down the final syllable of her only-partially-true favorite epithet for Keff. “What was I supposed to do?”

“What was she supposed to do?” said Keff. The clearing in front of the temple was now before them. The pattern of trees and tree density had shifted into a thicker cordon around the temple, moving the clutter of bodies on the ground with their relocations. If Aria or Barry were still out here, they were nowhere in sight. There was no longer a large enough gap in the foliage to see very much or very far at all, certainly not the path that had brought them there. This type of magic struck Keff as more extremely uncommon than impressively powerful, but she thought back to the faded journal pages in the base of the temple, and how they told the story of men who did not want to be found. Greene pushed herself off of Keff’s bolstering shoulder, adopting an uncanny limp as she pitifully attempted to walk unassisted.

“As… a... “ Greene’s breaths were straining her speech, and her speech was straining her lies. “As a… better tacl-tackit-tactick- smarter person, I guess I’m just too smart for you to understand my-...” her hands fell to her knees. A feather or bug or the abstract concept of sales tax could have knocked her over. Also even a sliver of additional guilt. That metaphorical jug was brimming.

“You left her to die,” said Keff. “You left a lot of people to die. The least you can do is help save Bunting.” Greene looked back at her in disgust.

“You don’t know she’s dead. You don’t know. You don’t-” her foot caught on the helmet visor of a dismembered Beaut. “Well, maybe him…” Bear gave the helmet a scowl. Helmets were unnatural. If food had been meant to wear helmets, then Bear wouldn’t have been given the teeth to drag food by its ears, which was half the fun. Bear’s internal thought process was a lot more primal than how this is being explained to you, but it was somehow even wordier there.

“Him and many more.” Keff’s words stung. Or maybe it just was a raindrop hitting Greene’s cheek. Or maybe it was both.

“I’m not going to risk my life just to get our dear lord to a nice coffin before dinner. We can’t all be as noble-

“Not just him. Greene, we have to get word to the keep. We need them to send help for Brick, for Barry, for us, for anyone else who might still need help, for Ar-”

“You don’t know Keff! You don’t know! You don’t know that Brick’s dead. You don’t know that Barry’s dead! I am sick of you, sick of you pretending that you know!” Keff gave nothing in response. Greene could feel herself choking on the noose she was weaving. “I brought us here! I brought us through the Dyrwood! You’re not even from here! You’re a freak born from- born, born from-!” Still no response. Greene was looking ahead but she could imagine Keff’s smug, condescending face ridiculing her through the rain with its regal, shit- uh, shit, shit shittereeness. She knew it, she knew it, that slimy- “You don’t know the Dyrwood, you don’t know anything about it! You don’t know that, that, A-, A-” Greene’s wandering toes struck another object, an undersized war axe, unpolished, bloody, one-of-a-kind. Greene’s eyes seemed to turn to stone. She collapsed into a seated daze, unable to tear her gaze away from the axe. Bear broke his enmity with the helmet to stand next to her.

The axe was inscribed with the same crude symbol on Greene’s bow. She and Aria had made those markings together in their second year of traveling together. It had given their friendship and their adventures a little more of a legendary feel, much to Aria’s delight. To Greene it was more a celebration of a mutually beneficial partnership, what with her range making up for Aria’s short reach and Aria’s brutal strength compensating for Greene’s sheer uselessness fighting anything close enough to touch her. But now the axe was within Greene’s reach, sitting idly in a slowly-forming puddle. Greene picked it up and slid her fingers over the markings where Aria had unintentionally drawn every letter and symbol either distorted or backward. Aria didn’t give up. Aria didn’t drop shit. There was not a world where Aria fled weaponless in panicked defeat away from where her friends might be in peril. The axe, being here, ownerless, meant, meant-

“Okay.” No response. “Okay, Keff. I’ll do it.” Nothing. Greene turned her gaze from the axe and looked at Keff, “Keff, I said I’ll send Be-”

“Too late.” Keff’s words accompanied a painful grunt as she shoved Bunting off of Bear into Greene’s lap.

“W-what?” Greene nearly let Bunting’s head collide with the hard earth before cradling his fall. Startled, she looked up to see a dozen foot soldiers moving toward them with intensity, slowly picking up their pace and drawing their weapons in an exasperated tedium, as if they had had enough of this shit for the day. Keff began mumbling under her breath.

“Shit.” Greene didn’t have the strength to move Bunting off of her, but even if she did, she knew she couldn’t run, or draw her bow, or even feebly throw an arrow and hope it developed novel concepts of acceleration. Keff was no better off. She was chanting but had made no effort to pull the imposing god hammer off her back. Bear growled. “Keff, he can’t, he can’t fight all of them.”

“Ah!” A cry of pain shot from the soldiers as dragon wing shaped flames flew out of their souls and into the sky.

“Send him. Buy me time.” Keff said it in a bizarrely melancholy highspeed flow, barely pausing between words before returning to her muttering. Greene nodded and slapped Bear on his hindquarters. The bear equivalent of ‘it’s a living’ coursed through his thoughts.

  
“Forward!” The fire spell had been designed for efficiency, not stopping power, and so the soldiers had weathered it without serious casualty. The downpour had not been hospitable to the flames, either. Bear charged to meet the slightly-wounded attackers. He pinned one without difficulty but found himself bouncing and pivoting to avoid being cornered. His fallen foe took this opportunity to rise to his feet. Multiple swords grazed Bear as he dodged to shoulder check an opponent into a battered stumble. He whipped around to refocus but they were closing on him fast.

“Hurry up!” said Greene to Keff, who simply shook her head. Small fires tore into the soldiers once more, but they recovered quickly, and Bear only enjoyed a brief reprieve from danger. The largest of the armored men rapped his fist into his own breastplate in defiance. Bear bit one of them in the leg in defiance, dragging the screaming man in front of him. For a brief moment, the trapped soldier was a way of keeping a distance from the others, but then they advanced once more. Bear bludgeoned one of the man’s compatriots with his flailing body, but lost the chance to do it again when others stabbed into his flank and beat his skull to weaken the grip of his jaw.

“Bear!” Greene wiggled helplessly beneath her burden. She looked up at Keff, who was still just repeating the words that brought insufficient fire. “Keff do something!” The fire singed the soldiers’ fingers. Bear took their painful flinches as an opportunity to break out of his entrapment and barrel back towards the elves, making half the distance before stopping. He gave Greene a desperate look before turning in an agonizing twist to face another assault. Greene wanted to reach out and inspect his wounds but the soldiers were already closing once more.

“Oh,” said Keff, her voice shaking. Greene looked at her in shock.

“Oh? That’s all you have, is oh?”

“But,” said Keff, grimacing, trembling.

“But? But what? It’s too hard to do spells good when you’re hurt? Are you good, good for anything, Keff? Are you? A-”

“Knock.” Big boy time. You might have heard the word knock before, but not like this. This was major league ‘knock.’ A harmless shockwave of residual soul energy flashed and, as the soldiers were just reaching Bear’s last stand, two giant ogres with clubs appeared out of the brightness to meet them with equal and opposite speed. They smashed into them with fearless abandon. Greene fell backward in relief, Bunting rolling onto her chest.

“Sweet agony, Keff. I thought we were dead.” Greene started to chuckle to herself. “I have to admit-” It was then that she saw that Keff’s trembling had not ceased. “Keff?”

Sweating and shivering, Keff struggled to stay upright.

“I’m... I’m...” Keff couldn’t finish the sentence. Greene beckoned for Bear to support Keff as she lowered herself to the ground. The sound of raging ogres accompanied a peal of thunder and a break of lightning.

“It’s alright, it’s alright, we got them,” said Greene, trying to crane her neck supportively from under Bunting.

“No, the spell, it- if I, if I, it needs- it needs me-” Keff’s meaning came clearly to Greene.

“Your pack! Health potions, some sort of adra… something, you have something, right?” Greene asked. Keff let out a hollow laugh at the mention of health potions. The ogres were hollering as they turned the soldiers two-dimensional.

“Did you ever find it?” Keff’s vision was melting into a weak blur.

“Find what?” said Greene.

“The… torch?” Shouts came from within the wood as more soldiers came to challenge the triumphant ogres. There were more of them. Much more of them.

“You can’t be serious? It’s never enough for you.” The ogres turned to take on the new challengers, swinging their clubs in giddy anticipation.

“Heh. Heh. Maybe… maybe I should have brought them.” The most daring of the soldiers took his first swing.

“If it wasn’t for these ogres, Keff, I’d say you were the-” The soldier’s sword passed through empty air, sending him forward in an off-balance waltz. Greene looked back at Keff. Her eyes were closed. Aria’s axe glinted in the rain.

The soldiers, now there were more of them, cautiously tapped the ground where the ogres had been standing. Greene looked up at them and met their inquiring faces with terror. They grinned and charged. Bear stepped in front of Greene and let off one final growl. Greene put her hand on his leg. It would be over soon. The soldiers closed. The rain pushed down from the heavens, further clouding Greene’s fading vision. She was grateful. The rushing footsteps were a pace away. She could hear the mace rising to the apex of its path. And then there was light.

_____

When she opened her eyes, she was looking at a greying old dwarf, only faint remnants of orange lingering in his otherwise aged beard. He was wearing a suit of armor that looked far too heavy for anyone his height. It shone like a star. Behind him were many other well-polished warriors, some solemnly finishing off her attackers as they lay moaning on the ground in their final moments. She turned to Keff and saw another dwarf laying his hands above her, light channeling from his palms into her soul. A touch of color was returning to the pale elf’s face. Bunting was next to her, maybe breathing? Unclear, but the light shone into him as well. Greene heard a happy grunt and saw Bear being fed a slab of meat by two sturdy-looking humans. Others milled about, watching for potential threats and combing through the bodies for something- or someone. There must have been at least forty of them.

“Who are you?” she asked. The old dwarf regarded her with a professional aloofness.

“I am Wallace. Unbroken, unbeaten, paladin-”

“Not you specifically, you strange idiot. Who are all of you?”

“Your insolence is regrettable. I have no doubt it has done the lord of Caed Nua a great disservice. You condemn your allies with the weakness of your conviction.” Greene gave Wallace the facial equivalent of a middle finger. “But, to answer your question, young elf, we are the spirit of unity, the hammer of integrity, the sworn protectors of just and noble diplomacy. You are in the presence of the shield wall, the heirs to the guardianship of trust, the vanguard of eternity, the mighty Shieldbearers of St. Elcga.”

“


	11. Act 1 Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone has to be the adult around here

Act 1 Ch 11

The baron craned his neck, trying to see past the enchanted treeline that had obscured his vision of the strange Engwithan site. Or was it a strange Engwithan sight? The sight of the site had had him citing prayers he hadn’t uttered since childhood, excepting a deadly hungover morning 5 years prior. Trees shifting in the wood were a rare enough occurrence, but a new piece of old shit showing up just off his road in his barony? This was disconcerting, as was his current hangover. Rubbing his forehead with no regard to friction, he motioned for his lieutenant to attend to his confusion. The diminutive second moved his way through the baron’s ranks.

“Sir?”

“What’s all this then?”

“Sir?”

“We’ve sent my brother-in-law’s retinue to sweep the temple for the Watcher’s body.”

“Yes sir.”

“And then the forest moved,”

“Eh, ‘pears so, sir.”

“And now I cannot hear or see the some four dozen-”

“Fifty, sir.”

“What’s that?”

“Fifty, on account of the two blokes from the other regiment.”

“What?”

“Oh yeah, real beautiful story, sir. Turns out they was fighting side-by-side, not just with each other but with your lady wife’s brother’s boys, right? Got into a touch of trouble with some of Caed Nua’s finest, things seemed real sticky, real last-minute-alive-type-business, but they rescued each other. Swore a forty-eight on two blood bond on the spot. Inseparable friendship, made right here in the heat of battle.”

The baron paused to reconsider his ability to draft talent. He scanned his amassed forces. Surely one of them had to be a better candidate for his right-hand. Any of them? He couldn’t have lost all his best in the initial rout, right? They had sallied forth and surprised the Watcher’s dogs without much issue, and had been in the process of calling it a flawless ambush when the other lords had announced that the body was missing. Not hard to realize you’re short one dead death-defying orlan. The baron would be over there picking through corpses at the temple door himself if it weren’t for these confounding trees. Even before they had decided to sashay their way into a mystifying formation they had already been giving his troops problems. For one, where there was supposed to be an easy march for the bulk of his forces to storm the ruin was instead a tangle of underbrush and weeds that made an all-out assault untenable. The limited space had kept his divisions segmented and uncoordinated with many of his allies, although proper alignment might have been overkill. They had won handily even considering the obstacles. And yet, forty-eight-

“Fifty, sir. Swell lads.”

Fifty men, his wife’s apparently congenial brother among them, had gone to search in and around the temple in an umpteenth sweep for the orlan corpse some time ago and had not reported back. Had the Watcher stashed even more soldiers in the surrounding woods? No, impossible, the amount that he’d brought along for an exploratory mission was absurd enough. It almost felt like the Caed Nua Beauts been brought along for the sole purpose of being ridiculous and unnecessary. The Watcher’s castle must have been left quite understaffed. Which was good, considering the other lords had left to claim it.

“There, sir!”

From the trees came some three dozen-

“Looks like thirty-eight!”

From the trees came a group of indeterminate numbers. Their armor was gold or silver or at least painted to look expensive. In front of them were-

“The two blokes who joined your brother’s forty-eight! Oy, looks like they’ve got new friends. Jovial battleground, this is.”

The baron reminded himself to hang either his lieutenant or himself by dawn. Maybe both.

“Parlay!” shouted one of the gleaming warriors, nudging his hostages forward.

“Parlay?” wondered the baron. What in Magran’s burnt bloody name was there to parlay about? They were there to kill the Watcher, seize Caed Nua from his incompetent hands, give the cursed thing to some less noble noble and then fit in a nice picnic lunch, time permitting. His troops looked to him, waiting to see whether he’d respect the request. He shrugged and waved in assent. The sturdy newcomers, many of whom were dwarves, made their way toward the baron’s host.

“Well not with all of you!” yelled the baron. The dwarves nodded and sent forth four of their own, prisoners in tow. The baron gestured for four footmen to accompany him as he trotted to the neutral ground on horseback. His lieutenant got about one step in before a paralyzing glare from the baron made him realize he had some potential career instability looming.

“You meet with Shieldbearers, my lord,” said one of the paladins. He gestured to the bleeding prisoners. “We bring you a gift. The return of your kin, in return for your return to your lands.”

“These are my lands,” seethed the baron. “You were not invited.” The dwarf shrugged.

“Then to your keep, until such time that all within the wood may return to their own.”

“All within? The Watcher lives?” said the baron.

“May. May not. Changes nothing. Do you accept our terms?”

“Your terms? You stand outnumbered in my domain offering me two peasants in exchange for the demand that I retreat? Are all paladins so devout in their stupidity?”

“So you reject our terms?”

“What?”

“You reject the clear and honest diplomatic proposal leveraged by the Shieldbearers of St. Elcga, hammers of justice, lords of integ-”

“Yes! Of course!” The baron was nearly beside himself now. Reading his tension, his army began to shift to attention. The Shieldbearers, however, seemed rather non-plussed. The baron turned his horse back toward his side.

“Don’t blame you,” said the lead paladin. “I wouldn’t have either.” The baron whipped his head around in exasperation.

“Then why did you waste my time?” he said.

“Had to.” The baron detected a hint of a grin on the stoic paladin’s visage.

“Had to?”

“Formality of the order. Always have to give honest negotiation a go.” He waved his gauntlet at his brothers. “Messes with the light otherwise.” The baron gave him a quizzical glare, then made his way back to his lines.

“Ooh, how’d it go, sir?” sputtered his lieutenant.

“They have come here to die,” said the baron, “Pikes!” His soldiers raised their weapons. The Shieldbearers seemed unworried. They conferred with each other, swords and shields fully holstered. Some seemed like they were praying.

“What they say, sir?”

“They want us gone.”

“Ah! Well, surely they must have known you’d say no, sir.”

“They did. Ready!” The baron was shouting to his troops now, unable to see his lieutenant’s confused expression.

“Well, then why’d they bother with the parlay?”

“On my mark!... eh? Oh, something to do with the light. Archers, ready!”

“To do with the light, sir?”

“Yes, you useless lout. The ligh-” The three dozen- (“thirty-eight!”) shut up, the approximately three dozen Shieldbearers erupted in blinding light, immolated in expanding columns of holy fire. The combined spells condensed into a mighty dome that grew outward at the speed of, well, you know. It radiated outward instantly in all directions, making for a shining explosion of enchanted flame that could be seen for miles. The sheer power of it obscured the landscape, the sky, people standing right next to each other. The shockwave blew massive chunks of the ground into oblivion, blew whole units to nothingness, consumed all senses until there was nothing but light.

_________________________

Brick opened his eyes. Everything hurt. He struggled to get off the dusty temple floor, which was quite impossible, as the dusty temple floor wasn’t there. Had it gotten bored and walked away? His opened eyes began to do their job. Better late than never, he supposed. It was immediately clear that he wasn’t even in the temple. His ass was far too comfy for that. He could smell fresh linen and bloody bandages and Brighthollow. Wait, Brighthollow? It took Brick a moment to confirm. It had been some time since he had slept in this room.

“Get up.” The voice came from a dwarf sitting across from his bed.

“‘Scuse me,” mumbled Brick, still groggy from the whole nearly dying thing.

  
“Up. You’ve slept long enough.” The dwarf was neither mad nor anxious. His words flowed with a simple pragmatism, his arms crossed in an expectant pose.

“Who are-”

“Wallace. Shieldbearers. Saved you. Enough?”

“What hap-”

“Shieldbearers. Saved you. Let’s go.” Wallace kept his emotionless glare on the wounded aumaua, not blinking until Brick pulled himself out of bed. The pair exited Brick’s bedroom. The sun was shining through Brighthollow’s ornate windows, reflecting softly in the quiet fountain on the bottom floor. From his position on the second floor’s railing, Brick could see more dwarves waiting at attention by Brighthollow’s entrance. A door opened to one of the bedrooms nearby and out walked a Shieldbearer wringing red, tired hands. He looked up at Wallace and gave a nod that felt like a shrug. Brick’s vision came solidly into focus.

“The others, are they-”

“They’ll live. Probably. The elves will, anyway. One of the orlans, maybe. Only good question you’ve asked,” said Wallace. “Now, follow-”

“Probably? Maybe? Where are they? Who’s alive? Tell me-”

“No.” Wallace pointed his finger at Brick. “No, you tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“Everything.”

“About what?”

“Don’t try me, Brick.”

“How do you know my name?”

“You’re very popular.” The owner of the voice’s furry ear peaked out from the open bedroom door. It was followed by a face, and a body, and the other ear. It was Barry.

“Barry, what happened?” said Brick.

“You brought almost every able-bodied man in Caed Nua on a hike,” said Wallace, seeing that Brick’s knowledge/question ratio was far more skewed than he had anticipated.

“All of them? Sweet agony, Barry, I knew you wanted to bring some of the Beauts, but this is-”

“-And it’s your fault,” said Wallace.

“My fault?” asked Brick. “I didn’t-”

“Are you deaf, aumaua? Yes, Brihcaress, it’s your fault,” said Wallace.

“Brihcaress?” asked Brick.

“Your full name? Brick can’t be your given one.”

“Brick is my real name. I’ve never heard of the name Brih-care-us.”

“I find that hard to believe,” said Wallace.

“Your real name is B’ricarus? Brykairees?” asked Barry.

“No!” said Brick.

“Who’s named after construction?” asked Wallace.

“Your name is Walls,” muttered Barry, hoping Wallace’s hearing was suitably depreciated for his age.

“Who names a child, ‘Brick?’” asked Wallace.

“Seafaring slavers stealing children out of free Rauatai,” said Brick. “If I had a name before that, I don’t remember it.”

“Can’t imagine it could have been less imaginative,” said Barry.

“Brihcaress-” Wallace began, quite certain.

“Brick,” said Brick, mostly certain.

“Whoever the hell you are, you’ve betrayed us all.”

“Me?” Brick realized Wallace was getting tired of him flabbergasting all over him.

“Yes, you. Brihcaer- Brick, shield of Caed Nua. Utmost warrior and hero of the Hollowborn Crisis. Commander of the Watcher’s forces. Been called one of these things before, yes? No?” Wallace was too busy disciplining Brick to notice Barry trying to stifle a flood of laughter.

“I’m not exactly-”

“Not exactly what? In charge? Unless you’re saying Lady Keffnus-”

“Keffnus?” Barry’s smirk was doing cartwheels and his voice came out in high-pitched delight.

“Unless you’re saying the incomparable mystic and timeless chanter Keff is to blame.”

“Look,” said Brick. “I know there are already a lot of ...stories about the group that saved the Dyrwood, but obviously they’re not exactly all..exact.”

“Oh really?” Barry interjected, fighting back tears.

“Hmmph” said Wallace. He paused, his hands for the first time reaching his impressive beard for a thoughtful tug. “Should have known it wasn’t all true.”

“I don’t know,” smirked Barry smirk-tastically. “I’m pretty fantastic.” Wallace seemed to ignore him, or not hear him, or not consider him worth hearing. Brick was starting to realize that those were all the same thing for Wallace.

“Heroes or not, you’re known all over for something real. Lord Bunting, Brick, and Keff, three curse-lifters. Slayers of Lord Raedric -”

“That was me,” said Barry.

“-and stalwart wardens of Caed Nua.” Wallace continued. “Hear it wherever I go. Already more acclaimed than my order. So how, Brick, or Bricarus, or Braycayrace, were you ambushed by a crowd of stale plain locals?” Brick was a little touched to hear that his name was being praised in places near and far. “How?”

“... We were… rusty, I suppose?”

“Rusty enough to lose to junk who can’t count the toes on their feet?”

“Any battle can be lost, no matter who’s fighting.” Brick said, falling back on a piece of martial wisdom he had heard once. For your sake, it’s written concisely here but he absolutely butchered the execution with a long series of stutters and pauses. Shit wasn’t pretty.

“Sweet agony, how do three-

“Six!” interjected Barry.

“-how do the three champions who killed every soul-blasted monster on the continent, end up dead and needing to be saved from common swordsmen by a massive light-bomb maneuver so rare and dangerous that I have only seen it performed once in my seventy years? How do they do end up like that? Unless their war leader is a feckless charlatan who can’t strap his armor on correctly?” The way Wallace fired ‘feckless charlatan’ out of his mouth indicated that it was a rhetorical weapon that he saved for proper moments, a sure sign of the oxymoronic reverence and disgust that the rural, reactionary, and uneducated have for uncommon diction.

“It’s a- uh, it’s an aumauan strap, not common around here,” Brick said.

“What?” asked Wallace, fury teeming out of his reddening dwarven cheeks.

“The armor, it’-”

“It was a metaphor, B’rick. Are you saying-”

“Sir! They’re waiting!” A Shieldbearer had come through Brighthollow’s front door and was beckoning them to come down the stairs. “They want an audience with at least one of them!”

“Commoners want your ear, Sir Brickaire,” said Wallace. “They want to know what happened to Uncle Brick’s promise to Caed Nua.”

“Oh we do love N’uncle B’rick,” said Barry.

“I don’t understand,” said Brick. Wallace shook his head in disgust and pushed him toward the stairs. Barry followed behind, taking slow painful breaths as they followed the dwarf out of the villa. The site outside was quite a sight, to cite those at the site. Half the buildings were burned or damaged; the grass was all but destroyed in several patches, and the entire courtyard had been turned into a quite busy makeshift field hospital. Piles of discarded weapons and armor pieces were nested wherever there was ample space. The faint odor of smoke and death lingered. Waiting behind a line of Shieldbearers was a desperate-looking crowd of villagers.

“What happened here?” said Brick.

“Your excursion left the castle undefended. Amateur decision, barely amateur. Childish.” said Wallace. “Barely had enough of your ‘Boys’ to man one wall.” Speaking of Brick’s boys, most were lying still in cots and hastily-assembled beds throughout the yard, many missing limbs that Brick could swear had been attached just a few days prior. “Talk to them.”

“The limbs?”

“The people!”

“Why?”

“Your castle is being held by a traveling group of strange paladins.”

“Where?” said Brick. Wallace was fed up.

“Me! Us! Shieldbearers! Set off a holy explosion matching the wrath of the gods without taking a loss! Stormed into your keep! Without the word of you or the Watcher, we’re only invaders! Bloodthirsty! Menacing! Which words do you know?” said Wallace. The assembled crowd was getting nervous watching him berate good old Uncle Brick. Brick still didn’t get it. Barry stepped forward.

“Brick, Bricky-boy. Bricker-Basket. They’re wondering if they’re being conquered,” said Barry. The word ‘ohhhhhhh” silently played on Brick’s lips. He straightened his posture into proper Uncle Brick form, and strode forth to assuage the worried peasants. He waved awkwardly at them and then bent over coughing. Wallace shook his head once more.

“Pitiful,” said Wallace.

“He tries his best,” said Barry.

“Was he trying when he let the council plan this betrayal?”

“Hmm?”

“The councilors. Old bastards, you must have seen them. Half were spying for some lord. He did nothing.”

“Who told you Brick was handling the council meetings? Eh-wasn’t my idea to put him there, by the way.”

“Spot of luck. The spies tried to turn Bunting’s...eh,-"

“Agents-”

“Yes. One of ‘em panicked. Man didn’t break but didn’t want nothing to do with a full Dyrwoodan war neither. Decided to run. Ended up at the inn I was staying at. Was sharing his story with anyone who would listen. ‘The Watcher’s days are numbered! He is betrayed!’ Guess he thought no one that far away would care. He was almost right.”

“You’re saying you’re only here because of a drunk coincidence?” Barry wasn’t buying it.

“‘Course not. Was headed here anyway. Wanted to offer my sword to Bunting. Thought he was-”

“Different?” Barry couldn’t conceal a chortle. He had known it had to be something this rich. “You brought a whole order of paladins because you thought Bunting, our Bunting, Lord Bunting, was a chance for real change in the Dyrwood? In Eora? What stories are they telling out there?” Barry’s smirk was psychedelic in its contractions. Wallace seemed not to notice.

“‘Course not. Didn’t get the others together ‘til I heard ‘bout the plot. Were reluctant at first, but I told ‘em pay was good. Speaking of which, pay ‘em,” said Wallace. For the millionth time at Caed Nua, someone cocked their head in confusion. There really should have been some confetti or fanfare for the occasion, but Barry’s numerically significant bewilderment went uncelebrated.

“Pay them?”

“I won’t do it. And can’t. Told the others the Watcher would provide. His wealth is... legendary.”

“That one’s true. But castle repairs are going to eat up the treasury.”

“Most of the people who were on your payroll last week are dead.”

“Sure, but I have a feeling St. Elcga’s favorites don’t go for guardsmen wages.”

“Who said anything about guardsmen?”

“Hmmm?” Barry was confused. One million and one! Wallace walked off, beckoning for Barry to follow. The two made their way to the top of one of Caed Nua’s defensive fortifications, Barry impatiently strutting in place behind the dwarf’s well-manicured but sluggish stride. From the wall, Barry could see a row of freshly dug graves. And then another. And then another. It all struck him as a little morbid.

“Seems unnecessary to rob graves after you dig them,” Barry said. “Just loot the bodies first.”

“Eh? No. That’s where the agents are buried,” said Wallace. Barry’s mouth hung open, speechless for the first time, perhaps ever. What he had assumed was the resting place for all of the battle’s casualties was instead an exclusive cemetery with enough real estate for every lone wolf Bunting had ever employed. And it was full. Every man, woman, and indeterminate god-thing that had ever stolen his chance to win glory was in the dirt. Unbelievable.

“But you said, the spies turned-”

“Drunk idiot in the inn wasn’t your most loyal. He was your least. Rest of these bastards decided to stay and fight. Never seen anything like it. But probably the only reason the castle stands.”

“Mercenaries and assassins decided to stay and fight?”

“Money-sucking parasites decided to stay,” said Wallace, emphasizing his perspective on the agents’ crafts. “That’s how I know you can pay us. They had the chance to run. But they couldn’t quit the gold. Lord might not be a legend, but he sure as hell knows how to inspire something in strangers,” said Wallace. Barry turned to him in crumbling disbelief.

“So that’s your plan? Take up a bunk in the barracks and enjoy a stipend from Bunting’s treasure hoard?” There was an unexpected pause.

“No,” said Wallace, as if he was discovering his own plans for the first time. “Not anymore. I wanted to serve the Watcher, but this? This isn’t what I thought it would be. I couldn’t be a soldier in this war...”

Below, they could see Brick apologizing for stepping on someone’s toe. A quick-thinking Shieldbearer blocked his wildly-emoting arms from knocking over his unintended victim.

“But I can’t leave this place with him in charge,” said Wallace.

“You need Caed Nua in sturdier hands,” said Barry, an idea quickly birthing itself in his mind. Agents were gone. Councilors were fired, or worse. Brick was useless. Keff and Bunting were alive? Dead? He hadn’t even thought to ask...

“Clearly, Brick’s been derelict in his responsibility to the wellbeing of the realm and to the only lord ever to touch this region with a hint of potential,” said Wallace, whipping out ‘derelict’ like it was the dishes you use when you have company.

“Clearly,” said Barry, his eyes shooting smirks.

“He must be replaced with someone more talented, more worthy of the men’s respect, and the legend that has formed around the Watcher.” Barry smiled.

“Oh if you must,” Barry said.

“That’s why I will be staying, not as a footman, but as the steward of Caed Nua, protector of the realm, and captain of the guard.”

“What!”


	12. Act 1 Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plot beckons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before I even started, I knew this was going to be the longest and most difficult chapter to write so far by far. Chapters 10-12 have deviated wildly from my outline and all three were rewritten from scratch multiple times, even going so far as to change what YEAR they took place and who is alive in them. We're all on this adventure together now. Strap in.

Act 1 Chapter 12

Bunting slept an uncomfortably shambolic sleep. He was dreaming, deep dreaming, or maybe just dead, or maybe hallucinating. Maybe this was a cipher’s vision or an epiphany revealed only to Watchers or the fever of an orlan high as hell on the metaphorical fumes of death. Perhaps the gods were revealing something to him intentionally or accidentally or maybe Barry was just at his bedside whispering into his ear, fiddling with his subconscious. Bunting could feel nothing real, or nothing not real enough, but he guessed he was in Caed Nua, in his over-sized bed meant for a human ruler... maybe this was the castle speaking to him. Or was it the Wheel calling? Had he already passed into the Beyond? Were the gods interested in what he knew or did they already know or not want him to know? All these questions swirled around and around until he was back at the soul machine, maybe literally, staring at the map of the world that was also literally the world. Dots, dots aligning two locations and at least three faces. Why him? Well, he was a big fucking deal but why Keff? Who was the blue face in Ixamitl? Was there one face or two? A distant instrument kicked up some ominous background music. Thematic as hell.

None of these felt like the right question. Mysterious Engwithan temples, inexplicable soul machines, a nameless fampyr that was nearly able to kill some of the world’s greatest heroes; none of it made sense. In their quest to save the Dyrwood they had been to Engwithan sites, disabled Thaos’s soul devices, and fought far greater threats and survived unscathed, But this was different. The soul table in his very real and very fake dream continued to cascade out a swarm of energy and uncertainty. The biawac was different, but why? Bunting thought this distinction was very important. Eora was full of weird shit but none of it had ever struck him as being arbitrarily different for the purpose of being arbitrarily different. Why did some souls degrade and some become soul energy and some take up residence in Keff’s sock drawer? He felt like he knew nothing about anything. His brain throbbed. Feeling hungover in a coma was the worst, and also maybe impossible, and also definitely happening to him right then, whenever or wherever then was. The music slapped.

The journals, the diaries, blueprints, and recordings sitting at the Engwithan lab, they must have answers. Bunting tried to look at them but their pages were changed, in the place of the strange Engwithan script were simply more details he already knew but did not understand, more questions that didn’t fit together. Thaos hiding the true nature of the gods. Thaos’s ability to enter the bodies of those with weak souls. Thaos’ plan to rob souls from the unborn. Dots. The planned disappearance of Engwith. Undead Engwithans with a grudge against Thaos, defiant against their own extinction, waiting for his final defeat to activate a unique soul device. A map. Dots. Bunting’s cipher ability to read history from soul fragments left in an object. Dots. His past, the serendipity that had plucked him from aimless merchant to chosen messiah. That had been a biawac, too. Dots. The castle, his castle, his keep, what lay beneath, five adra pillars reaching to the sky around the chapel. The mad Watcher who had owned it before. Dots. Dots, dots, dots, dots-dots. He could see it all at once, laid before him in a befuddling buffet. Too much. Too much detail, all connected by something but nothing, all useful red herrings, a tower of unreadable answers, all leading him to thoughts and ideas that seemed irrelevant to the real question. 

Blue faces. It kept coming back to the blue faces. Not like Brick’s. Maybe just one blue face. What had he seen in the soul storm? And why hadn’t he seen a face like Brick in the soul storm? There had been no dot for Brick, no mention of Greene, or Barry, or anyone else. Why had the blue face been real, or so real that it seemed to appear in the flesh, the map coming alive around it? 

“That’s a lot of questions,” a slurring voice said. “But I know a guy.”

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Keff sat in the war room alone. It seemed much bigger now that it was free of treacherous old men and their venereal diseases. She had not asked where the councilors were but she assumed “in the process of being reincarnated” was probably close. It hardly mattered to her. The day at the shifting forest plagued her. With what power could one hide a temple of that size, and enchant a forest of that proportion to actively move around it? Was it providence or the hands that twisted the roots of the Dyrwood that had allowed Wallace to reach them in time? With what energy did the soul machine operate? Why had it never been replicated in any other Engwithan contraption they had found? Why had the machine been off? Why was it on now? She had thought she understood adra but she understood nothing. Souls, soul-transferring, soul breaking, soul power, reincarnation- if she was struggling to understand all this, what chance did anyone else have?

Forget magic and the arcane: how or why did the fampyr’s journal have a detailed narrative of her life and Bunting’s? Why only theirs? Was this why the fampyr had stalled for time, waiting for Bunting to awaken? Why try to kill them if it wanted them to discover its lab? The soul storm occluded her conclusions, making it impossible for her to determine anything… except that she was not asking the right questions, not the right questions at all.

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Agents dead, agents dead, all the agents were very dead! Barry fenced against an imaginary opponent in the Caed Nua courtyard, the soreness of having been impaled just a month prior still punishing his every move. Wallace had taken his job but forget the guard, forget the Beauts, (they were mostly all dead anyway, those pathetic louts), it was going to be the summer of Barry! War was in full swing and no doubt the new management at Caed Nua would need new agents to pay large premiums to find unmatchable glory in the greatest adventures in Eora. The only question was, when could he start? A leg cramp sent him to his knees.

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Wallace stared out at the lands beyond Caed Nua. Quiet. Too quiet. There had not yet been another battle since he and his paladins had surprised the besiegers all those weeks ago. Between that fight and the one at the temple, they had dropped a total of three light bombs. Three! Unprecedented, truly. It was a complicated maneuver, requiring a concentration of forty-odd highly-skilled paladins that knew more about magic than was good for them. It was certainly beyond Wallace’ ken. He never much cared for that type of thing. Wallace preferred to save people before their entrails were hanging out of their necks. Shield walls, defensive formations, good leadership decisions, those were the hallmarks of a good servant of St. Elcga. Healing magic was for idiots who screwed that up. Wallace was still good at it, mind you, given his generous resurrection of the good knight Barry, but he wasn’t happy he’d had to do it. The light bomb was entirely the work of the other paladins. Learning offensive magic was where Wallace drew the line. 

It was irrelevant, he supposed. The expenditure had drained all of the Shieldbearers of their spiritual energy for the considerable future, healing reserves notwithstanding. Three fucking light bombs, he was surprised any of them could think straight. Any further confrontations would have to be won with grit and gumption alone. And a few shield walls. Wallace was certain there would always be a use for some well-placed shield walls. Which brought him to Bricaerus. Wallace had seen some liberal interpretations of how to hold a shield in his time, but none were as ineffective as Brick’s awkward grip. The lumbering aumaua was nothing like the stories. He had a nice front for the Watcher’s people sure, but to the trained eye, he was a fraud. And that’s not all that Wallace was realizing about Brick. There were several things about him that needed uncovering, and Wallace was slowly thinking of all the right questions...

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Brick was pacing, pacing fast, in his head, and on his feet. Was Wallace just here to save them from themselves, or was there something more he wanted? How long could he comfort Bunting’s panic-stricken subjects before they demanded to know if their lord was alive? Why was he always getting blamed for everything? Why didn’t anyone care to hear his full thoug-

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Greene stared at the wall in her room in Brighthollow. She only had questions for herself.

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“This might be the longest conversation we’ve ever had,” said the intoxicated murmur. “Course, you did all the talking, but what else is new?”

Bunting opened his eyes. There was nothing there, just the normal furnishings of the Caed Nua master bedroom. He started to reach out to detect the presence of a soul-

“Over here.” From out of a shadowy corner that Bunting hadn’t noticed came the visage of death’s herald. He was Bunting’s height, but where Bunting had fur and whiskers the man had sinister pinkish growths covering his temples and eyes. His skin was a cruel grey and the ridge on his skull was unspeakable. His grin, however, was bizarrely friendly.

“Kestutis?” said Bunting. “I thought you were dead.”

“Didn’t you just wake up?” said Kestutis. “How could you know?”

Bunting paused. He was uncertain. Somehow he just knew.

“Been speaking with my mother? She’s never been too chatty with me.” Kestutis was a death godlike, a mortal born with the mark of the humorless death god Berath. Godchildren of any deity were sterile, strange, and unloved, but Berath’s kids were especially reviled. Kestutis could hardly blame them. He looked like the end of the goddamn world. 

“You’ll be with her in a moment if you move a finger.” It was Wallace, sword drawn, the door flung open, flanked by two Shieldbearers of equal readiness.

Kestutis waved his flask in defiance.

“Oh Wally, if I wanted to do anything untoward, you’d never have heard my tiny little feet to begin with.”

“Who are you?” asked Bunting.

“Wallace of the Shieldbearers, my lord. Rescued you from the gates of the Beyond.” Wallace bowed slightly.

“Wallace, other angry dwarves, would you mind not raising your weapon at an agent of Caed Nua?” Bunting gestured generally in Kestutis’s direction. Everything hurt. “And also maybe not at anything in my bedroom at all.”

“There are no more agents of Caed Nua.” Wallace was firm.

“Don’t you remember me, Wally? Dark cloak, mead in hand, ‘oh no, the Watcher of Caed Nua is doomed. Woe unto me!’” Kestutis could hardly hold himself upright as he flailed his arms in theatrical mockery.

“It was you!” said Wallace. “You were the one who abandoned the Watcher! Coward!” His sword remained unsheathed.

“Oh yes, cowardice. That’s what it was. Just happening to find the only inn on the continent with a dwarf with the will and ability to rally five dozen paladins to a common cause at a month’s notice was me being very very scared.” Kestutis was giggling uncontrollably. “Didn’t you think, didn’t you think Wallyboy, it was all a little perfect?”

“Tell me how you know my name,” said Wallace. His brothers-in-arms were tense.

“The Watcher is always recruiting.” Kestutis grinned. “I still keep tabs on people from the old days.”

“I don’t remember-”

“Of course not. I was doing my best work a little before your time. Kestutis is a recent identity. I’ve also gone by The Wolf, The Rat, the WolfRat, Slim Bibby-.” At the mention of these names, Wallace flinched.

“-How-”

“Hello! Lord of Caed Nua! Is anyone going to tell me what’s happening?” Bunting’s soul hangover was still in effect and he had no desire to listen to old men catch up at his bedside. Get out of his room!

It was then that Wallace relayed all that had happened since Bunting had nearly been devoured by the apparition in the soul storm, Kestutis occasionally interrupting the dwarf fifty years his junior. Kestutis had been quite the renowned assassin in the previous century, but in recent decades had drunk his way through Eora before arriving at Bunting’s doorstep a few months prior. Couldn’t do the same thing forever. All his old clients and their corresponding factions and problems were long dead, anyway. Despite his habits, he had a clear memory of meeting a much younger Wallace on the day of the latter’s first big triumph. The Eastern Reach’s hyper elite independent contractors fraternized in a smaller circle than one would imagine. Wallace interrupted him before he could tell THAT story.

“-And so, I suppose, your man, The WolfR- -Kestutis led us to stop the fall of Caed Nua. With your permission, my lord, we would stay to protect your interests further. You deserve that much. The Dyrwood deserves its hero.”

Bunting waved his hands in defeat.

“Well, you’ve all already made yourselves at home in my room,” he said. “What am I going to do, tell you you can’t stay? I can’t even keep you from folding my trousers, much less evict your whole order.”

A paladin appeared from the hall and beckoned Wallace’s ear.

“Thank you, Lord Bunting. Just a moment.” Wallace and the other paladins disappeared into the hallway.

“Kestutis, you said you knew someone?” Bunting asked.

“You were shouting questions in your sleep. Most with a philosophical bent, but ah, ah-” Kestuti nearly retched “My apologies, but, ah, one was about a blue face in Ixamitl. And I happen to have a good friend, very good friend, who loves to shout about a blue face in Ixamitl. You two would get along swim swim swimmingly,”

“A friend?” Bunting asked. Kestutis had never fraternized with any of the other agents during his tenure at Caed Nua.

“It’s been a few years, but we were best of chums.” Kestutis emphasized this by toasting the sky with his drink. 

“...Kestutis, why didn’t you tell me the council was going to betray me?”

Kestutis, for the first time, looked a little glum. He glanced at his flask, flipping it over and over in his mottled hands.

“It’s not impossible, my lord, that I didn’t think of finding help until I was already on the road, far away from this place. Possibly.” He paused, still grim. “Can’t be su-”

Wallace burst back into the room.

“The girl is dying! Come with me!”

“What?”

“Now!” Wallace pulled Bunting to this feet. The three of them took off through Caed Nua’s drafty halls. Bunting clambered down the stairs faster than Wallace could, each step a painful bounce. Kestutis simply backflipped the distance; almost looking amused at his ability to pull it off. They came out the grand doors of Caed Nua sprinting fast, Bunting barely having time to witness his scorched lawn before behind ushered toward Brighthollow. His subjects caught only a slight glimpse of him as he followed the train of paladins clearing the path between the buildings. This was an unintentional pharmaceutical-grade stimulant for morale: the Watcher was alive, and he could run! Two dwarves at Brighthollow’s door refused Kestutis entrance and he shrugged in indifference. Bunting and Wallace continued inside.

Brick and Barry were already there when he arrived. They were shouting something at the Shieldbearers about privacy or secrecy or deception- Bunting couldn’t be sure. No time, no time now, up the stairs, down a hall, and through a door Bunting had never opened, his companions right behind. A dwarf who’d weathered his years far less gracefully than Wallace was standing over a bed, sweat dripping down his face.

“Report!”

“She’s been on the verge for a month but it’s getting worse. The magic’s not taking, Commander Wallace. We’re all just about spent out of healing zeal, all of us. Once the spell drops, she’s gone.” Aria was lying in the bed, immobile, lifeless.

“You didn’t tell us she was alive!” Brick was beside himself. Barry could hardly believe his eyes.

“You didn’t ask,” Wallace shoved him aside. “She barely is, anyway.” Light thrust from his fingers as he relieved the exhausted medic from his duty. He could feel Aria’s body fighting his magic. “The hell is this?”

“She’s of the wilds,” Barry said. “Hard to hurt her with magic, harder to help her with it.”

The sweaty dwarf nodded.

“It’s true, Wallace. Nary a health potion that worked.” Wallace grimaced as he forced a stronger version of the incantation into her soul. The light remained useless. You didn’t need to be the Watcher of Caed Nua to know her soul was weakening.

“Watcher, if you’ve got any tricks up your sleeve, now’s the time,” Wallace said, his forehead wrinkles flexing in exertion. The others looked at Bunting. He needed to think of something.

He reached out to Aria’s soul, but it was just as resistant and unmalleable as ever. He tried cajoling it, looking for weak spots. Ciphers didn’t traditionally treat soul manipulation like the invasion of a physical object, probably, but this whole cipher thing, this whole Watcher thing, this whole SOUL thing was one big damn improvisation, there were no rules. He concentrated his casting into a purposeful attack on Aria’s defenses, and it was at that moment he noticed that his hand was glowing. All of him was glowing. No one else seemed to notice. He realized that it was his own soul that was standing out. Being a Watcher and a generational talent had always made his soul more impressive than the others, but that usually took analysis and focus for him to perceive. Not now, his soul was gleaming without a hint of effort in that direction. In fact, it was way brighter than he had ever seen it before. He saw it pulse and grow, forming a shiny doppelganger of himself. 

“Bunting!” Someone was yelling at him. Maybe all of them. He hardly noticed. His clone was staring at him, changing ever so slightly, until Bunting realized that it was aging. He was watching his soul’s potential, his potential. It was mighty, larger in sum than all of the other souls in the room combined. His future was unmatchable. He was a legendary hero, it was in his blood, he was from beyond myth and fantasy, his soul was proving it. Ego was boosting in pace with his power. You could smell the internal melodrama-

“Watcher!” It was Wallace, his light straining as the superior spell drained his reserves quicker. Bunting looked down at his own hand once more and saw the soul energy peak within. He grabbed Wallace’s casting wrist and forced all of his soul power into the paladin’s efforts. And then there was light. A lot more light.

Supercharged by the soul magic, Wallace’s healing blasted forth at a blinding rate and radius, entirely encompassing Aria in its glow. Brick and Barry’s eyes grew wide as they caught a glimpse of Bunting’s eyes brimming solid white with soul potential. For a moment, Bunting felt all-powerful, unstoppable, boo-yah, hell yeah, (heal yeah?) but then he started fading, fading fast. The strength of his soul was the only thing keeping him alive, and the more he pummeled into Wallace’s mana the more it sucked the force from his spirit. He started to falter.

“Not yet!” Wallace roared. “She needs more!” Bunting had almost died and actually died many times, too many times, but this was different. He was starting to dissolve, his soul unraveling. There would be no peaceful awakening on clean sheets six weeks later, no cute semi-resurrection if this shit didn’t hold. There was going to be nothing left of him. He looked at Aria. She needed him. He kept his fist clenched on Wallace’s arm, every other muscle turning limp as the soul storm fired within him. 

“Close! Close!” Wallace was taking in soul power at light bomb scale, and he could feel the capacity of his body to house that magic crying out in pain. Wallace was not a whiner, though, and his own eyes flashed in pale bloody lightning as he strained to keep his composure mellow. Brick and Barry could only watch.

Bunting could feel the last few seconds of his mortality approaching. His eyes winced as a new light blew into the doorway. It was attached to someone but he couldn’t tell who. It didn’t matter: the soul it was attached to was fresh, powerful, and untapped. With the last of his strength, he leaped onto the mysterious person and pushed the burden of saving Aria onto them, saving his last bit of power to keep his existence intact. The sliver needed to finish the ritual drained out of the foreign soul before its owner had a chance to complain. The light finished its buildup and finally exploded within Aria’s soul.

“Sweet agony,” Wallace muttered, inspecting his gloved fingers in clear distaste for the safety net of magic. He was reluctant to pull off his gauntlets, knowing he’d probably discover he’d been relieved of his fingernails.

Aria opened her eyes, catching Bunting’s gaze as she came to. He sighed in relief and was about to speak her name.

“Barry!” Aria was elated. “Barry, is everyone okay?” Bunting’s soul shattered, just metaphorically, though.

“We’ve all been dying of boredom waiting for you to wake up,” said Barry, smirk descending from the heavens. “You really are a bit of a rascal.”

Bunting looked up at his benefactor. It was Keff. She gave him a weird look, the type of look you give someone when they zap a very minuscule portion of your soul as a way of saying “good morning.” Greene shoved her aside, coming into the room like a woman possessed.

“Aria, you’re, you’re-” Greene couldn’t quite find the words. Everyone except Aria looked at her in disgust. “Aria, you, you, I-”

“Hi, Greene!” Aria was just happy to see her. Tears were built up behind Greene’s eyes like a dam about to suffer a thousand-year flood.

“Oh Aria, you idiot, you’re alive!” She embraced her tiny friend. “You really have to pay more attention. Didn’t I teach you how to stay alive?” Greene’s voice was shaky and mean but Aria seemed unaware and unoffended.

“Oh, I will next time, Greene. Don’t you worry!” The rest of the group crowded around her bedside, laughing, talking, bonding with disregard for previous feuds. Keff shared a quip with the minor paladins, Brick and Barry joked with Aria, the whole room lit with friendship. Even Wallace and his dour ass accepted a conciliatory handshake from Greene.

Bunting did not join in. He stayed on the floor, out of breath, watching the hidden power of those gathered among him. Only two souls stood out among their pedestrian counterparts: his, burgeoning with untapped might unheard of by anyone alive, and Keff’s: regal, elven, and- what was that- could it be- somehow, someway, an order of magnitude greater than his. Two mortals with potential beyond comprehension, two dots on a map. He had his answer.

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Folks, I'm having a blast writing this. I would love to hear from you in any way you see fit in the comments. It greatly helps to know how many of this story's hits are readers that are reading all the way through.


	13. Act 1 Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A plan is declared

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are slowly finding our way back to my outline, if only for a brief second

Act 1 Ch 13  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


The Great Hall at Caed Nua was far from the grandest foyer Wallace had ever served in. Pretty well dusted, though, all things considered. Good dusting, that was a strong sign of a well-run castle. Good dusting and lots of shields in the armory. Signs of regal elegance and forthright thought. Wallace looked at his new lord, who was sitting uncomfortably in his rarely-used throne. Bunting was the hero of the Dyrwood, Watcher of Caed Nua, right? Surely there had to be some reason for the lack of foresight, the poor planning that had led to the alliance of neighboring lords hellbent on capturing the keep. Wallace shook his head. It just didn’t add up.

And Keffnus, Lady Keff, the song-stormstress of Caed Nua-- she had not foreseen this disaster either? Wallace knew now that he had been sold a little too easily on tales of her wisdom but there had to be some truth to it? Had the Hollowborn Crisis been so easy to solve as to be conquerable by these people? Hmmph. The whole lot of them, all three, (or six, as Bartholomew kept aggressing) seemed as if they didn’t have the wherewithal to run a haberdashery, much less a realm.

Although now, looking at them all for the first time together, clearly illuminated in plentiful torchlight in their formal wear, unstained by blood, dirt, or fatigue, Wallace was struck by their youth. Earlier, it had been just a subtle detail of his overall disappointment, but now it had crawled to the top of his mind and had splayed out over all other thoughts. By Galawain’s solitude, none of them besides Bricaerus could have seen more than thirty years! This was starting to make more sense. Wallace saw a fellow paladin at-attention, guarding the big doors leading outside, no such thoughts in his mind. Of course. Prejudice against orlans came with ignorance about them, and it had ironically granted Bunting a reprieve from being undermined for his age. It would have taken an orlan or one with the years of Wallace’s experience to realize Bunting was younger than his look suggested. No wonder the public still clamored for his leadership even after the near-defeat of Brick’s Boys months prior. They had no idea they were being led by such a young, inexperienced man of an inferior generation.

Somebody needed to set these children straight. There was value in the knowledge of older folk. Disrespecting the lessons of your elders made you a complete idiot. The Watcher of Caed Nua could not afford to be a complete idiot.

“Bricaerus, try not being a complete idiot,” Wallace whispered to Brick.

Brick sighed. The old dwarf was an ornery bastard to him and only him for some unspoken reason. Wallace seemed to show professional deference to Bunting and Keff at all times, only sending criticism indirectly through jabs at Brick’s past behavior. He’d once mocked Brick for allowing Keff to study adra unchecked in Brighthollow -as if Brick had any veto on what Keff did.

Barry smirked from across the room. Barry didn’t draw any of Wallace’s wrath. Brick supposed this was because Barry did very little to disappoint. Wallace had been drilling both of them with his Shieldbearers in the courtyard for weeks now, pointing out flaws and nonsense in their fighting habits. Barry, being a natural with just about every weapon he could get his hands on, had only been the recipient of Wallace’s neutral grunts. The Shieldbearers were a little more effusive in their praise, having rarely fought an orlan with that level of ferocity and strategic insight before. If you didn’t know that Wallace had stolen Barry’s captainhood that he had never earned in the first place, you could have sworn Barry was having a completely wonderful time.

Brick, on the other hand, had been harassed mercilessly. Wallace hated his stance; Wallace hated his fighting style; Wallace hated the way he moved in armor; Wallace hated the way he ate his breakfast. Brick couldn’t even appease Wallace with his weapon selection. “Wrong! Wrong, Bricaerus! You lose!” he’d roar, no matter what Brick chose. This shit was endless. Brick grimaced and fixed his posture, hand at his swordbelt. Wallace had saved him that indignity, at least. Although the defense of the castle and the health of the big three (“six!”) was now solely Wallace’s domain, he had not asked Brick to forego his role as Bunting’s bodyguard. Not to say he had allowed it without humiliation, either, though. Wallace had asked him to display his bodyguarding expertise, but when Brick had confidently squared his feet, his whole frame in front of Bunting’s, eager to prove he was competent at this, at least, Wallace had simply raised his sword to Keff’s neck and smiled (but only with his eyebrows). Thus, Brick’s current job security had been awarded not because Wallace thought he was superb at protecting Bunting, but rather because Brick had been deemed incapable of protecting more than one person at once.

Bunting had remained oblivious to Brick’s torment, as per always. Wallace had been more of a taciturn valet to him, only occasionally interrupting his day with questions about and advice on how to handle the ongoing war before leaving him to his privacy. Bunting spent little time thinking about it. Whatever the war required Wallace could handle, and wherever he faltered and needed someone of a more high-born bent, well, Keff could stand in. Although, Bunting had detected a slight fade in Wallace’s eyes when he had suggested Keff as a diplomatic surrogate. Whether this was because of a lack of faith in Keff or a sign of Wallace’s disappointment in Bunting’s lack of interest was not important to Bunting. He only thought about blue faces.

Blue faces! Or a face! Either way. The old Engwithans had been tracking souls with the potential for power- huge power! “As a weapon against Thaos,” Keff had surmised, but the reason hardly mattered to Bunting. Collecting the mighty before they could be recruited by the enemy was a habit of Bunting’s, as evidenced by the field full of dead agents right outside the castle walls. Now that that program had run dry, save one notable exception, it was time again to find new and powerful allies. This blue man in the Ixamitl could be the secret to their eternal safety at Caed Nua, and thus the end to Bunting’s endless responsibility to maintain that safety. Three soul-storm promised powerhouses under one flag? Unstoppable, once they all hit their full potential anyway. No need for council meetings and intervening dwarves and Barry’s easy digs at his failings and Aria nearly dying- no one would dare step against those with the power to defy gods. He could finally spend an afternoon in peace. He was one blue face away. They just had to retrieve the blue face. Just had to go get him. Get him. Keff had said he was being obsessive. He was not being obsessive, and even if he were, wasn’t she always complaining he wasn’t caring enough? First, she had been mad he had been too lazy but now she was frustrated he finally had something to care about. Nonsense. He could see his hype immortal future in the winds of the soul storm.

Keff was concerned. Bunting had perhaps uncovered the truth of their futures (a mundane prophecy for her, considering she had been hearing similar declarations about herself since birth) but he seemed unbothered by every other aspect of what they had discovered. Keff had pushed him to consider the transience of the Engwithan temple and the dots on the map that pointed not to a person, but a place. Was there another such soul machine in the north? Why would there be two? Why the need for such large and powerful adra machinery just to track the souls of a few powerful mortals? Keff had her Thaos theory but it wasn’t enough. Why did these Engwithans hate Thaos enough to hide away for millennia and transform into wretched fampyrs just to maintain that grudge? Building colossal soul devices to find powerful warriors to defeat a foe was strange enough: but to maintain that search for so long without success or surrender? Madness. But Bunting hadn’t cared. He was done with questions. He could only think about accelerating the fulfillment of their destinies: him, Keff, and the blue man. He had near-begged her to research this, despite her clear admission that she had no idea where to start with such a project. He had not listened, simply saying “The souls, Keff! Look to the souls!”

Barry stood with the Shieldbearers. They were normally a diligent and stoic bunch, but they had begun to lose their rigidity around their new mascot. Just as he had done with the Beauts, he had developed a strong camaraderie with his fellow soldiers, even getting them to look the other way when he had snuck out to revisit the Engwithan temple. They had all been ordered by Bunting (via Wallace’s strong suggestion) (or was it the other way around?) to stay at Caed Nua for as long as the war lasted. Greene would normally have complained loudly, but she had no interest in leaving Aria’s side during the latter’s long recuperation, so it had been up to Barry to fuck with the rules. And fuck with them he had, tracing their bloody path back to the not-so-clear clearing in the middle of the night, only to discover that the temple had disappeared altogether. The wood was now as it once was. Spooky. There would be no treasure to be awarded for all the blood he had spent there. But Barry had been undeterred. He knew Keff and Bunting were up to something, something big. He had spent much time in his perch outside Keff’s window, observing them argue, and it was clear that they needed something they could not reach. They’d have to send someone in their stead, and Bunting was fresh out of hired help. This was Barry’s moment. He was going to be weaponized as a full and lucrative hero of glory and acclaim, just as he should have been when they saved the world. Who wanted to be captain of the guard, anyway? (Barry still did, but this was an outstanding consolation.)

And sure enough, here they all were, all the peasants and soldiers and men of the court, assembled in a grand ceremony, waiting for Bunting to begin speaking. This was hardly Bunting’s style, handling business in front of a full court, but Barry surmised that Wallace had advised Bunting to go for a bit of pomp and circumstance to reassert calm and control to his subjects. It was working. All the attendees were attentively anticipating the announcement. Excitement was building. They were at war and instead of the pragmatic orders Wallace had given while Bunting had been comatose, they were witnessing the courtly showmanship of a ruler in full control. A swell of reassurance was permeating the court. It hardly even mattered what the matter at hand was. Barry had a pretty good idea of what was going to happen, but even he felt pleasure in fantasizing about the scale of his assignment. Bunting rapped the side of the throne. The guards opened Caed Nua’s big swinging doors and in walked destiny.

“You may approach,” said Wallace to the newcomer. The man was Brick’s height, but with no visible aumaua features. Twin thick splitting branches grew out of his wizened brow, and there were no pupils in his dimly glowing eyes. He was green and wild, a symbolic son of the overcompensating god Galawain. He nodded to Wallace and began to walk to his position. Barry noted that he was even slower than Keff. You didn’t need to be well-acquainted with nature godlikes to know that this man was severely old and handling it poorly. Barry scoffed. His heart had jumped for a moment at first but this pathetic old man was no competition for his ambitions.

“Speak your name,” said Keff, noticing Bunting’s hesitation. She realized he was lost in thought, reading everyone’s souls, comparing power and potential with endless levels of pedantry. Bunting had always been somewhat distracted by the other side, but it had been getting worse and worse ever since he had come to understand what the soul storm had shown him. “Speak your name for our lord.” She said ‘our lord’ with a strong edge, desperately praying it would snap Bunting out of his absent-mindedness.

“I have taken no name for myself,” said the green man. “But my order and all orders call me Extract.” He spoke with a cadence that implied words were expensive and phrases were sacrilegious.

“Extract, the monk of the deep woods,” said Keff, mostly for the crowd’s sake. “And your reason for petitioning the court?” Bunting’s gaze remained unchanged.

“St. Elcga called,” said Extract, gesturing to the golden armor populating the great hall. Realizing he was being prompted to say more, he slowly continued. “With words from Caed Nua.”

“And your response to our request?” asked Keff.

“I will destroy your enemies. I bring the wrath of a thousand shattered pillars.” More than a few members of the audience did their worst to conceal a chortle. This man was barely standing upright, poorly filling out the dirty robes of an impoverished hermit. He wasn’t going to destroy shit.

“You’re not going to be my sword,” said Bunting, perhaps removed from his trance by someone so egregiously misrepresenting the power of their soul. “We seek only your memories.”

Extract said nothing but looked a little paler. It was hard to tell for sure, given his mysterious and mossy face, but he almost seemed disappointed, like a quiet, insignificant man who had been nothing all his life, who had never had recognition, who had convinced himself that a powerful lord had sought him out especially for his abilities, that someone still believed in him even now. This was of course just part of the melodramatic script that Bunting’s brain read the world with, but perhaps some of it was true.

“We have been told you know of a powerful man of the Ixamitl,” said Bunting.

“There have been many,” responded Extract.

“How many have been blue?” asked Bunting. Extract froze, looking even older as the telltale signs of terror crept onto his face. It pained him to find the words to continue.

“You speak of Ondra’s hated spawn, the death of the plains, The Coldman.”

“He’s one of Ondra’s?” asked Bunting, ignoring the other foreboding words Extract had spoken. Moon godlike were certainly blue, but they had never struck Bunting as particularly powerful. But their mother had thrown a moon at Eora once. So they had that going for them. Bunting could see the blue face from the soul storm in his mind once more. It was clearer now, definitely a moon child. He was on the right path.

“He was.”

“Was? No, the man I seek is alive.”

“The Coldman is dead.” Now it was everyone else who froze. If there were a script, this was not in it.

Bunting grimaced. This was not good. He had planned on announcing a grand adventure to find this man. The crowd was expecting action and he was expecting his salvation. No, no, no...

Keff could feel the energy dying, not just in Extract’s hopes for himself but in the fervor of the court. Bunting was silent. She needed to say something.

Extract continued, unprompted.

“... by my hand.”

“By your hand?” asked Bunting. He wasn’t sure where to go with this.

“The Coldman stained Eora with every step. There was no choice.” The silence became awkward. Brick could tell the court was getting anxious.

Keff saw an opening.

“You slew this man in Ixamitl?” she asked.

“Yes. Tracked him to the deepest and most dangerous lands of the northern nomads.” Extract spoke as if he were transported there now, as if he could see the Plains swarming around him.

“Then we may have use for you yet,” said Keff. She gave Bunting a look.

“Yes, we-” Bunting was struggling to improvise. “We seek another child of Ondra in those same lands.” He looked back at Keff. What did she want him to ask? She took over.

“If our man is to find him,” Keff began. A few Shieldbearers and Beauts gave Barry a knowing grin. His smirk was powerful enough to respond to all of them. “If our man is to find him, he will need the help of one who knows Ixamitl well. Could you guide him?”

Extract shook his head, solemnly.

“Companionship is a violation of my oaths. I will find this man myself,” said Extract. Bunting shook his head. Lots of head shaking today. Extract’s ordinary soul would have inspired no confidence even if it had come in a less decrepit shell.

“You have agreed to serve me,” said Bunting. “You will not go alone.”

“I cannot-”

“You will.”

“I-”

“The lord has spoken!” said Wallace with thunderous rancor. “Choose your next words carefully, monk.”

Extract seemed to fall into his thoughts. The crowd mumbled nervously at the conflict. This argument was pure posturing; Keff desperately saving face on Bunting’s behalf, as per always. Extract was not needed. The Ixamitl Plains were well-mapped, and surely ample guides could be found amongst its natives if need truly arose. But Extract had walked into a lord’s hall and defied him on his own accord, so being stuck in this stupid situation was his own fault. An uneasy silence seeped in and seemed to last an hour.

“Who would you have me serve?” Extract finally asked. Barry stepped forward. A few muted cheers came from the Beauts, and some nods could be seen among various servants and dignitaries. Bunting pulled out a scroll and read from it, Keff’s flowing penmanship visible to those close by.

“We have lost a great many of Caed Nua’s defenders this year. But do not despair. My greatest and most valiant-” Bunting paused to avoid gagging. “My greatest and most valiant servant still stands-” Polite applause emitted from a few courtiers.

“-Recently, he has done much to earn my trust, and the trust of those who still defend us-”

Barry lifted a hand in recognition and was greeted with more encouraging touches of rapport on his shoulders. The tempo of the cheering built higher and higher. Bunting raised his voice to keep pace.

“And so it is with great expectation that I announce him to the court, as the man who will find the key to the end of this Dyrwoodan War-” Full cheers now, noise from even the quieter in the hall.

“-and the health of all within my lands!” The crowd was uproarious. Barry was turning from side to side, making sure to collect his accolades from everyone present. He was pretty sure he could even hear a few chanting his name.

“-and so, your companion will be-” Yes! Yes!

“-The Wolf, The Rat, the Ravenhawk, Aedyr’s Final Terror, Kestutis of Caed Nua,” said Bunting.

Out from the shadows came Kestutis the Raven, drunk as perhaps anyone has ever been.

“What?” yelled Barry.

“No!” yelled Extract, in a long and drawn-out outcry that sounded a lot more like ‘Nawwww!’

“Good tidings old man!” yelled Kestutis in positive exultation.

“What are you doing here?” yelled Extract. “I work alone!”

“And I work for the throne,” yelled Kestutis, accentuating the rhyme. “ Let’s go to Ixamitl!”

“My lord, I cannot work with this man,” said Extract, turning back to Bunting. “He is a scoundrel, dishonorable-”

“You’re about to honor these bells!” yelled Kestutis.

“You will n- I am a warrior of solemn reflection!”

“Reflect on my lively expression!”

“This is intolerable!”

“You need to get inter-a-bottle-of-ale!”

It went on like this for the rest of the night.


	14. Act 1 Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The world needs saving. The party intends to answer that call. Seems like a foolproof plan.
> 
> WARNING: This is a sneak peak at ACT 3. Ao3 keeps changing the title back to Act 1 Chapter 1, but it's Act 3 Chapter 1

Act 3 Chapter 1

WARNING: This is a sneak peak at ACT 3.

Bunting stood at the front of the Godhammer, the massive ship bucking and bouncing into increasingly dangerous waves. Behind him stood the full power of Rauatai, its immense fleet forming encouraging wings on both sides. Within the cohort sailed Vailian galleons, adra-fused technology decorating their hulls. And filling the ocean around them were royal Huana seastriders, keeping pace as ancient magic accelerated their thrust. They had done it; the impossible. Bunting and his allies had gotten a cadre of self-righteous jackasses to all point their boats in the same direction. United in purpose, they rocketed toward Ukaizo, a prize they all craved for different reasons, never sharing elevation as the waves and wake kept them flowing violently across the seas.

The storms guarding Ukaizo were yet distant. All around the mighty coalition were optimistic sunlight and clear skies. Shouts of confidence and purpose escaped from every vessel. If anyone had a chance to save or ruin the world, it was the legions gathered here. Brick met Bunting at his post and stuck out his hand for a triumphant shake. Bunting grabbed it with emphasis and they grinned as their friends beamed behind them. Presumably. That’s how they would remember it. It’s possible some of the crew found the whole thing melodramatic. They might not have been smiling. Not entirely important, but it would be misleading to say everyone actively volunteered to mirror the duo’s emotions to form a picture-perfect frame of the tone of the situation. If any dissent was happening, Brick and Bunting showed no acknowledgement, too absorbed in self-congratulation. They had brought Eora the defense it deserved. All that awaited now was victory.

And then the sky shattered.

From all sides, illusory magic faded, betraying the previously hidden pirate incursion. Cries of violence and alarm rang out as a hodgepodge armada of vessels of every possible size, quality, and stench was revealed. Bunting’s disciplined forces kept their formation but their foes respected no such uniformity. Some, only manned and gunned on one side (with an unusual surplus of cannons), fired point-blank into the Huana navy. Others had come unequipped and instead bee-lined for the Vailian crafts, emptying their entire abnormally-sized crews onto their decks. And yet another third, their figureheads spiked and reinforced, simply collided directly into Rauatai’s flanks. The chaos was indecipherable, the ambush both seeming planned and undirected. Bunting grasped for a reaction, knowing the others were waiting for him to give an order.

But nothing came to him. The din of cannon fire flooded his ability to think and it paired poorly with the thousands of discordant thoughts he could sense emanating from all angles. Time seemed to slow. Brick was staring at him with a dumbfounded expression. That’s generous. Brick stared at him with a dumb expression; two outclassed men trading blank glances. Bunting noticed Keff improvising, trying to speak up some magic into existence, but it seemed like the vastness of the situation paralyzed her as well. To aim anywhere would hit everything, there were dangers and allies and choppy waters everywhere at once. Wallace was standing still in his massive armor but his eyes danced intensely, fruitlessly trying to assume which side they’d be boarded from first. Vann had his fists clenched and his legs bouncing in place, clearly agonizing over the fact that the enemy was beyond the range of both his opinion of how far he could jump and his actual ability to jump. They were all burning valuable time.

To not be such a rotten pessimist about the whole thing, at least they weren’t actually burning, which was not a luxury many Huana had. Armored sailors shouted in terror as enemy flamethrowers scorched their decks and opened their hulls. This was admittedly tragic, but it struck Vann as a little amateur. Yes, the Deadfire natives had been caught unaware with no chance to respond by a vicious foe with little regard for their own safety, but the blue-skinned godchild felt they could have held it together slightly better. Vann didn’t think that was too much to ask.

  
A whole Huana division splintered as some ships sunk and others careened off course. This was a lot of careening. Very few, arguably none, of the combatants on either side had ever witnessed this much careening before. A landmark occasion unfortunately marred by the circumstances. This thought and a thousand more paraded through Bunting’s head all too fast and all too slow as the Vailian position became more and more compromised. The Vailians had brought along civilian experts to help operate their bizarre contraptions, and those helpless academics found themselves more and more isolated as their military counterparts were pushed back and murdered by the surprise pirates.

Wallace grabbed Brick by the shoulders and shouted something into his face but it was impossible to hear. By the look of the dwarf’s thundering but wrinkled expression, Brick could surmise it was not about commemorating all the noteworthy careening. The Godhammer shook tremendously as cannon fire found its mark in and around its path.

  
And then there was Griddle, dagger in his mouth, sword in his hand, determination in his eyes, and Wallace’s lunch in his pocket, coming down fast from the crow’s nest. His offhand arm was enclosed majestically around a long rope that flew with him down and then off the Godhammer. Vann thought he was playing it up a bit. As he glided unsecured into the air, Griddle concluded he was playing it up a bit. The thought had first struck him seconds earlier when the complex and responsible plan to jump into the open sky and aim for the enemy had first formulated, but now he was sure. Vann’s gaze met his own as he soared, implicitly communicating that, yes, what Griddle was doing was very impressive and heroic, but that Vann was still counting it as showboating. Griddle grimaced at his incomplete win.

The pirate who Griddle landed on failed to grasp this nuance, or Griddle for that matter, as the experienced sea dog introduced the criminal’s torso to the ship’s deck. This sent a very unwelcoming message to the rest of the buccaneers onboard. With a roar that was clearly too confident given the situation at hand, Griddle dodged one blade and blocked another, keeping rhythm with his opponents as he began to liberate the Vailian boat from its occupiers.

The rest of the Godhammer jumped into action, Griddle’s initiative rallying them out of stasis. Vann joined him with a mighty rope-assisted leap, just barely bridging the gap before coating a nearby adversary’s visage with punches. Bunting yelled ship-related commands in the jumbled order that they came to mind at the crew, who got the gist of what he was getting at and steered closer to the fray. Wallace and Brick nodded at each other and took up posts at opposite sides of the vessel, barely getting into place in time before a torrent of pirates flooded the Godhammer with arguably unkind intent.

  
Some never got to find out what it felt like to walk Bunting’s flagship, as Keff instead spoke forceful words that shoved them off their trajectories into the sea. The remainder that survived were struck by Keff’s quarterstaff, a fate not normally categorized as the better of two options.

The stoic nationalism of Rauatai held even as their footing did not, with soldiers quickly defending or abandoning their damaged homes with uncanny precision. Their ships not embedded with enemy timber held their pace, and the pirates tasked with assaulting them found every inch of combat to be an unpleasant affair. They were still numerous and unrelenting, however, and hope never emerged of Rauataian aid coming to the rest of the fleet.

This was the last view of the battlefield Bunting took in before a cannonball and a pirate touched down on his position simultaneously. Bunting and his assailant both careened, one more bittersweet moment, into different directions as the wood beneath them shattered. The explosion also staggered Brick and he found himself retreating, tripping backward into the middle of the ship as unsteady pirates wobbled toward him. Keff whirled around and froze them with terse lyrics, but also lost her standing as wobblers of her own charged/fell against her armor. Wallace’s stance did not falter, and his sword peacefully passed through the shaken attackers’ necks.

Back on the captain’s deck, Bunting saw a different sword raised high and about to connect with parts of him he selfishly considered essential. The pirate standing above him swung downward and then upward as Bunting shot him in the head. Bunting couldn’t even hear the pistol go off, but, what, was he complaining?

Griddle and Vann were finding great success in their own endeavors, the pirates being unable to coordinate effectively against the outnumbered duo. Curiously, Griddle saw that the savage murderers had no structured plan of attack beyond their initial move. This suited Vann, who found kicking them all directly to hell to be cathartic and productive. But the two of them could not be everywhere at once, despite their foes’ perspective that Vann did seem to do just that. Other Vailian ships were losing stride or stopping entirely as their crew were massacred.

Bunting looked down the diameter of the Godhammer and saw Wallace standing over a fallen Brick, trying to coordinate with Keff as they created headcount discrepancies for the pirate’s roster. The rest of the crew was frantically working as cannons thundered, somehow keeping the ship on course. Bunting shot another pirate, whose whole day and skull were thrown off. The residual soul energy from the impact of the bullet flowed into Bunting as he concentrated, mumbling. A strongly worded suggestion journeyed from his mind to the encroaching intruders.

Brick found himself in the unenviable situation of fighting boarders on his knees, unable to find time to get up. Had he been shorter, his life would have been as well, but his commanding height allowed him to simulate fighting as an undersized human, which was enough to keep his head attached. This normally would have been comical to his opponents but there was something about being skewered by two rapid blades that kept them rather unamused.

Wallace, too, was keeping his vitals intact, as well as those of the crew members cowering near him. Keff was proving an inefficient bodyguard to the sailors near her, however, as she was too occupied with crushing a pirate’s chest to stop others from putting their knives into a nearby deckhand. The killers moved to strike another when Bunting’s spell found them, tampering with their priorities in the subtle way that makes one want to murder one’s closest friends. They found themselves suddenly in battle with their crewmates, who were caught off guard by the magical betrayal only long enough to have their entrails given some time to tan in the sun. Brick took this reprieve to stand up and use his sabers to coerce more pirates into having this experience.

Keff breathed a sigh of relief and exhaustion. She also coughed out a little of her own spit but it would have been a little callous to call her out for being unhygienic at that moment, so everyone pretended not to notice. In addition to seeing her friends making this mental decision, she also spied the conflict stabilizing, as the pirates had already won all their surprise encounters and were now being rebutted by those who had not been sunk in the first phase. Vann and Griddle gave each other an embrace that seemed to mock Brick’s and Bunting’s earlier. Their emotions were earnest but it was clear there was a bit of a dig there, as well. It was not over-pronounced, but it was there. Their ship had been rendered captainless, however, and they were moving further and further away from the Godhammer.

  
Bunting turned to his helmsman to instruct him to close the distance to Griddle and Vann but he collided facefirst with a mind-controlled pirate. The pirate looked down at Bunting’s frazzled frame and smiled, his thoughts artificially twisted into viewing him as a trusted confidant. Bunting shoved him into the ocean. Brick grinned as he ushered his own problems into the water. Wallace made sure their torsos were transparent before doing so.

Turning again to signal the crew, Bunting again began to utter his homebrew recreation of proper shipspeak, but as he spoke, an imposing frigate passed unharmed through the center of one of Rauatai’s finest, its occupants coming into view as it continued its trajectory unhindered. Many well-armed pirates accented its edges, but Bunting only noticed one figure, whose face was transfixed into a wild, unyielding smile. Its clothes were battered and its torso was horridly bent, but Bunting recognized it immediately. The deranged body belonged to a specific individual, of course, but Bunting saw much more than that. Contained within that mangled and maniacal silhouette wasn’t just a person. It was the end of the world.


End file.
